Set You Free
by whimsyfox
Summary: "But she thought she could save me. She thought her love, her friendship, her body, would keep me strong and clean." 1790. Hal is in the chair again, ready to go clean, ready to attempt to atone for his sins by living a life devoid of, well, life. But then a girl appears. Hal/Sylvie/several OC's/supposition.
1. Chapter 1: The girl

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Incredibly thankful beyond words for the world that Toby Whithouse has created and for the character of Hal that Damien Molony has brought to life. This is just a spark that I had to write down.

Thanks to Saemay, fantastic writer of the incredible Walking with a Ghost, for encouraging me and being my beta. :)

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* A fichu is a large, scarf like piece of very light fabric worn by women in the 18th century to fill in a low neckline in the front. It's folded diagonally into a triangle around the shoulders and pinned or tucked into the bodice.

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**Chapter 1: The girl**

1790

Hal comes to with a start, his gasp echoing in the chamber. He looks about him confused, the last vestiges of the nightmare..._memories... _he'd just come out of plaguing at the edge of his vision. _Dark. Red. Lots of running red. Screams. Lots of juicy screams._... Blinking, the room comes into focus, the smells turn from tantalizing coppery tang to a fruity oaken perfume. Hal takes a few cleansing gulps of air. _Ah, the wine cellar._ Thank small mercies. Last time he'd done this he'd been in a barn...

How long? A week? Two? Perhaps three? Time has a way of getting lost in the interminable circles of ranting, pleading, sobbing, fighting. Guilt, indignation, resignation. The bloodlust, cramps, hallucinations, sweats, hunger, shivers... they take it in turns, drowning him in wave after wave. Though it really didn't matter. What was time for one like him? This was just the herald of yet another cycle...though whether the beginning or the end, he never was quite sure.

The few merciful times he manages to drift off he's plagued by dreams... _nightmares... _of times past. He wakes up terrified, aroused, confused. Oh how he aches to give in to the seduction of those memories...

As he strives to calm his breathing, trying to gain a few moments of respite before the next surge engulfs him, the quiet is interrupted by the small creak of the cellar door. He lifts his eyes, blinking away the last of the fuzzy film. A young girl comes into focus. She's just turning from closing the door, a slight upturn of her lips and curve of cheek hinting of a smile.

The girl is still smiling to herself at having gotten away from her governess as she closes the door. She'd slipped away while the old biddy was watching the dancing, and run down as far from the noise and people as she could. She would have run outside to lose herself in the gardens had it not been for the pouring rain. She'd found the next best thing - a long corridor at the bottom of the servant's stairs leading to the wine cellar. But as she turns around her smile breaks into astonishment. Unexpectedly, the cellar is occupied by a man in a chair in the middle of the room. A mass of tousled brown hair, the beginnings of a beard, a shocked look on his face. Sans overcoat and cravat, he's dressed only in linen shirtsleeves and dark breeches, dampness making the linen stick transparently to his chest and shoulders. He is young, though several years older than she.

Her heart racing at being caught where she shouldn't be, she shakily says "Forgive me sir, I did not realize anyone was down here. I was simply looking for a quiet place away from the ball." She takes a few steps in and sees he's tied down to the chair, leather straps across his torso, around his wrists and ankles, chained down to the stone of the cellar floor. There is padding on the armrests, stained with rusty blood, dried smears on his wrists. Paper is strewn about under him and a pail is further behind. She is immediately concerned. His handsome face is twisted in pain and he looks terrified. She's says alarmed, "Are you all right sir?"

In gasping tones he says "No. I mean yes. I'm fine. You must leave. For your own safety."

"Why are you down here like this? Who has done this to you. Here let me help you."

"I'm here of my own volition." His voice hitches shakily, "I need to be here, I **want** to be here."

But instead the girl advances towards him, as if drawn like a magnet. Hal rolls his eyes and sighs. _Good God, here we go. If he survived this...interlude... in the chair, he really must find a way to get a few scars or some other disfigurement. Perhaps shave all his hair..._

"**Don't** come any closer!" His voice cracks with desperation as he catches her scent. Instead of the cloying perfumes so popularly worn, she smells of the outdoors, a freshness of lavender, mixed with something sweeter. And the hint of salt - the smell that hints of the salty-sweet fluid pumping just under the surface of her delicate skin. As she comes within arm's length he can see the veins under the pale skin at her neck, can hear her heartbeat as it flutters.

The girl stops directly in front of him noting how pale he is, the sheen of sweat covering him. Perhaps he has a catching sickness? She should step back, should leave, but she wants to help him. Nurturing instincts - she'd been caring for stray animals since her childhood. She looks straight into his eyes - _green? brown? amber? _- such a tortured expression on his face.

She says something, but Hal is no longer listening. _thud thud. thud thud. thud thud._ That wet, tantalizing sound calling to him like a siren. His eyes travel to her neck, glued to the pulse easily seen. _blood. blood. blood. _He forces his eyes closed, desperately trying to focus, trying to fight the visceral need consuming him as the dizzy feeling of falling, of sinking, washes over him. But it's too soon. _SO easy to fall..._

She sees him struggling against his bonds. Oh dear, was he having a fit? Perhaps he suffered from the falling sickness. _What do I do? Should I go for help..._ But as she's turning away he suddenly speaks to her again.

"Not so fast daarrrling." Hal drawls, having slipped into his confident skin.

As she turns back, she thinks his eyes flash strangely in the dim light, almost as if they were pure black. However, when he blinks they are that same elusive colour. _Hazel_ she thinks idly.

"Tell me your name." He grins a crooked smirk, holding a winsome smile. It's a smile that for almost 300 years has caused women and men alike to throw themselves at his feet; the women moist with anticipation, the men soiled with trepidation. A devilish grin - no point in pretending. He **is **a devil and he relishes it.

She opens her mouth to tell him her name, but something stops her. He seems like... like an entirely different person. The timbre of his voice, the transformation of his face. Her instincts tell her it feels wrong. Yet she is mesmerized.

"No matter. I do not require a name, just some assistance. Why don't you bring your pretty little self over here and untie me, hmm?"

"But, sir, you just told me not to. Are you well?"

"Yesss. I feel **perfectly** fine now. I merely want to get out of this tiresome chair, and you have so fortuitously been delivered to me. My own angel to rescue me."

"Rescue you from what, from whom?"

"From this **pointless** exercise in futility. Why deny the inevitable? Come now be a good girl and release me. Then we'll go upstairs, you and I, and join in the merrymaking. Or we can just stay down here, you and I..." he trails off with another flash of that wicked smile.

She wants to do what he asks her, she is intrigued by him, his manner, his voice all velvet. But as she looks straight into his eyes - _with green highlights _the thought comes unbidden - something stops her. She pictures how terrified he'd looked just moments before, how he'd pleaded for her to go. As she hesitates he blinks once more and this time his eyes definitely flash black through his next blink.

"Untie me you whore!" He spits out at her and she can see his teeth protruding out. She frowns wonderingly. Was he possessed? A devil dressed up as a man, sent to tempt her with the face of an angel? Father Brunn was always sermonizing about temptation, about young women these days observing propriety. Yet still she didn't run. Father Brunn smelled of cheap whiskey and had once tried to pull up her skirt. She'd taught him a lesson about observing propriety he'd never forgotten.

"What are you?"

"I'll be whatever you want me to be," he gives her another beguiling smile "just come and undo these straps and set me free you stupid girl. Well, don't just stand there you cow!"

She comes closer and his smile widens victoriously. **Thwack!**

"If you think that language is going to get you anything, then you're the stupid one. I don't care who you are, what you are, you can rot here for all I care. No one calls me a cow!"

At the slap, something is dislodged within him. It's enough to untether that hungry part of him, and he comes to his previous self. "Owww!" he exclaims, outraged. Then he looks at her, the moment catching up to him and he starts panicking again.

"I'm sorry." He breathes. "You don't know how much in danger you are. He's not safe. **_Pleeaase._** Go now. I don't know how long I can hold him at bay while you're here."

"Are you back? Who are you? Who is he? Are you possessed? You know, there's a fanatical vicar upstairs that I'm sure would take a crack at getting that demon out of you. Though he's just mostly full of hot air, liable to bungle it. Still, I can go fetch him."

He gives a small amused huff, with a shake of his head, "If only it were that easy. What I am can't be driven out, I've been incurably altered." He looks up at her again. "You don't understand. This isn't a game."

"Then help me understand." She holds her ground.

Hal takes a calming breath. "There are monsters in your world. Not everyone is what they purport to be. I..." He hesitates, then blurts it out "I'm a vampire."

"As in the tales told in the villages, with witches and fairies?"

Another shaky laugh. "No, as in 'I can rip your throat out in less than a second' if you don't leave. I can hear the blood pulsing through you, I can almost smell it. It's what I desire most. It's what I'm trying to resist. " Breathily he says, "Please, for both our sakes, go. Go, run as far as you can. Forget you ever encountered...this..." He motions his hands open.

"But."

"Run!"

They look at each other one last time.

His - fangs - are gone, his eyes normal. She sees again the haunted look she first saw when she entered - _was that mere minutes ago?_ - a tired hopelessness in his eyes. It pulls at her - _surely there's something she can do_? He seems genuinely upset he'll hurt her. She would put his words to those of a madman, except for what she had seen. He'd definitely transformed into... something. He sees a young girl, perhaps a half dozen years younger than he had been when he'd been recruited; a delicate face framed by a mass of dark curls uncharacteristically worn down about her shoulders, deep brown eyes dark pools full of questions. The kind of girl his irredeemable self would enjoy quite thoroughly before taking her young life.

He thinks she'll continue to interrogate him, but she turns and leaves, the small thud of the closing door finally masking the ones of her heartbeat. He breathes a sigh of relief and starts chanting to himself.

* * *

5 years later...

A ball. How depressingly predictable. Polite society these days seems endlessly obsessed with them.

Trite conversation, followed by insipid refreshments, followed by incessant dancing. Lively dancing to some atrocious loud folk tunes, not proper dignified dancing and music. With the manner they get on, one would mistake this a gathering of a small village of peasants cavorting about rather than high society. It all gives him a headache, but one must play the part. Still, he rather likes the trappings of this modern era. He would have traded in his soul just for the indoor plumbing alone...

The hunger prowls inside him but he keeps well away from the humans, standing by the door as a precaution against murderous urges overcoming his control. He does not often go out into society, but had been obligated to this affair to preserve some of his interests and business dealings. After making a polite appearance within some of the conversing circles he'd excused himself to take up his current vigil, his demeanor discouraging company. He would have left altogether if not for the consternation of finding a vampire in the midst of all the unsuspecting humans, one he is familiar with.

Hal closes his eyes against the memories that threaten to surface. He'd worked so hard to rise to the position he'd obtained, and then... and then it had all caught up to him. Again. He wants to flee but feels the need to find out what Charles is doing this far away from the London enclave. Hal has a carefully constructed system in place to receive news of the vampires' dealings, one that preserves the secret of his new whereabouts. This ball is several counties away from his current home, and he has disclosed very little details of himself to anyone in attendance, but his penchant for caution has preserved his life on more than one occasion.

**Bang!**

Hal's thoughts are interrupted by a loud noise behind him through the open door. He turns with a frown but cannot see anything amiss from his vantage point. Looking back at the scene in the ballroom, the dancing portion well underway and the vampire appearing guileless in his participation, Hal thankfully embraces the excuse to go out to the corridor to investigate.

"Bloody bollocks on toast!"

Hal hears these expletives, his eyebrows rising in surprise to hear the utterer is a lady. He rounds the corner and sees her. Dewy porcelain skin, dark hair pinned up with a ribbon, wispy curls tumbling down the sides. Her delicate frame is partially turned away from him in the hallway as she looks down at her seafoam green dress.

"May I... be of some assistance?"

As she looks up she begins talking but Hal doesn't catch her words. He's seen the red on her dress and cringes as he simultaneously takes an involuntarily deep breath. Catching her scent he pulls up short as his senses smell... _wait there's no heady tang_. Instead he smells... He tenses all the more. No blood, but that scent is unmistakable, a lavender sweetness laced with underlying salty spice. He's smelled that particular combination before, once. It quickly dawns on him and he recognizes her, the girl from the cellar. He'd managed to convinced himself she had been a hallucination, though in truth he'd known he was deceiving himself. The withdrawal hallucinations were reliably about figures from his past, his nightmares haunting him. HER face had had no place in his perpetual memory till that day. A pretty girl who'd seen him manifest, who knew, or at the very least suspected, his secret. His kind were careful to keep that secret at all costs. If you were unfortunate enough to witness a vampire, your fate was sealed, one way or another. No witnesses. However, it had been months later that he'd emerged from the cellar a new man. Easier to pretend she'd been a hallucination than to entertain the idea of searching her out.

But here she is, no mistaking that scent, the same colour of hair, the same deep brown eyes, the same delicate features now ripened into a young woman.

He is shaken from his thoughts as her voice rises.

"Well, some knight in shining armor you are sir. Are you going to continue to stand there gaping at me like a ninnyhammer or do you perhaps have a spare handkerchief I may borrow? Though I fear this stain is set. Oh if only I'd caught it earlier, mother will be livid."

Hal is still frozen. The best course of action is to leave while he can, but...

She looks up at him again. "I do not bite."

_But I do_, the thought comes unbidden. With a shaky laugh, he dons his mask of civility over his tumbling thoughts.

"Yes of course, how rude of me. I beg your forgiveness." He says with a small nod and walks the intervening distance offering her a silk square.

She distractedly takes it, giving him a quick grateful smile, and begins to dab at her bodice. Hal looks away modestly, uncomfortably. "Oh bugger it." She says under her breath and he frowns disapprovingly at her, then rapidly turns his head once more in further embarrassment. She's begun removing clothing. In his presence.

"I'll just get rid of the fichu, that's really where the stain is anyway. Thank you sir. Forgive me for my most unladylike behavior. It is a curse of mine, as I'm told constantly. I just don't like to simper and titter. There, I think I can get away with this."

He looks back at her as she turns her head up with a deeper smile, a tone of satisfaction on her face. He remembers that look. But as her gaze meets his, her smile falters, turning to surprise. He remembers that look as well. He hears the acceleration in the rhythm of her heartbeat.

The girl is thinking she really should behave herself, it's not this man's fault she's in a proper bad mood at not being able to convince her mother to lay off this ball. Besides, she was about to have her payback and that thought suddenly makes her giddy. She looks up at him mirthfully as he stands slightly dazed. She prepares to thank him, when she sees his eyes. A pair of eyes she never thought to see again. An unmistakable colour she'd not seen since - _hazel, with edges of green_ - HIS eyes. She's suddenly frightened and excited.

"It's you!" She gasps. "You're the man from the cellar."

"I beg your pardon..." He says poshly.

She takes in his countenance. The beard has been replaced by a shadow of whiskers, he wears a tailcoat in deep blue over his black breeches, and has a proper cravat, though an odd choice in red. He looks well groomed, and the picture of health rather than wearing the exhausted sheen she remembers. However, there is no mistaking those eyes. She's assured she is correct. "Do not pretend otherwise, sir, you are the man I saw some 5 years ago tied to a chair in a wine cellar. " She pauses, lowering her voice, "I remember you looking up at me terrified one minute, then you changed, became... different. For a while I thought it was a dream..."

Hal pauses, thinking of a few ways to mislead her, but at that moment a door in the corridor opens and a roundish woman with a bonnet and grey hair comes hurrying out. Her eyes light upon them, her determined expression turns at once to disapproval.

"There you are Miss Arundel, I've been searching all over for you! What mischief have you gotten into now? And what are you doing here in a deserted corridor, with this gentleman unchaperoned? Highly improper."

The girl turns to her chaperone, "Mrs. Gibbons, do not fret, no breaches in propriety have been observed. I have only just come out for some...fresh air. All the gaiety has left me faint that's all, and Mr._?" She trails off looking at him expectantly.

"Yorke" Hal says, "Hal Yorke. " He gives both ladies a curt bow.

"Mr. Yorke was kindly offering to escort me to the gardens for some fresh air, weren't you Mr. Yorke? Under your watchful eye, to be sure."

Hal gives a panicked sigh, ready to object, but again he is saved from response by the older lady. Looking quite peaked, green almost, she suddenly sputters, "I feel quite... I must... I'll just be..." and she dashes down the hallway in a bustle.

Hal raises his eyebrows perplexed. He turns back to the girl, whose lips are twitching with a suppressed smile. She gives up and lets out a delicate laugh. Looking back up at him, her fear forgotten, she conspiratorially warns him, "I would stay away from the punch." Biting her lip guiltily she takes out a bottle from a hidden pocket in her skirt and shows him the label. 'Ricinus Communis'

"Castor Oil?" Hal says, frowning disapprovingly. "Mrs. Gibbons must have been very thirsty if she's already feeling the effects."

The young lady laughs again. "Shall we to the gardens Mr. Yorke? I don't believe we'll want to linger much longer as other guests get thirsty."

"Quite. But I fear I cannot escort you as... I must..." Hal fumbles with his words as she looks up at him expectantly.

As if on cue another man walks out from the ballroom doors and heads straight towards them. This man is tall, pale, perhaps around 30 years in age, with brown eyes and a mop of curly ash brown hair that grazes his elaborately knotted white cravat over his black coat.

"Lord Harry, fancy seeing you here. It has been quite a while since I last laid eyes on you. We have been wondering how you've been getting on, where you have fled to this time. Jacob will be very happy to hear I've found you."

The man stops in front of them with a respectful air and nods deeply. Hal looks at him like he's encountered an irritating insect. The man continues his buzzing. "There are actually some urgent matters he would welcome your help with, concerning some," He pauses as he takes note of her, "dogs."

"Would you excuse me?" Hal says politely then rounds on the man, giving him a look to propel them down the hall. However, she edges herself down behind them, keeping herself within earshot. His voice hardening, she hears, "Charles, I am not interested in those... _matters_ anymore. You can tell Jacob to do whatever he likes so long as none of you show your faces here ever again. In fact it might be... _healthier_ for all of you, if you left this part of England alone all together."

Charles tries to make an argument but trails off at Hal's withering look. The other man quickly turns speculatively, directing his gaze at her. "And who is this exquisite creature you have here? Is this what you are interested in nowadays? I'm sure Jacob would be most interested in her as well."

Hal looks over to where the girl is standing. He frowns. _S__urely I walked away much further from her. _He needs to get her away from Charles before he's forced to resort to more than just a veiled threat.

His voice hardens further, taking on an authoritative tone and he maneuvers out of her line of sight so that he can stealthily grab the other vampire's throat. "She is none of your concern. Do you remember Madrid 1784? Of course you do. That will seem like a fond dream compared to what I will do to you and the others if I **so much** as catch a _rumor_ that you still remain within 100 miles of here. Am I understood?"

Charles blanches, unbelievably paling further. He swallows and scurries away, turning back to look once he's at the far end of the corridor.

Hal watches to make sure Charles will not come back, but to be safe he turns back to the girl, suddenly not as confident. Losing his authoritative tone for an apologetic one he says, "My sincere apologies for that unfortunate encounter, Miss Arundel. I think it would be... ah... prudent... to have that walk now. Shall we?"

She notices he doesn't offer her his arm, but stands politely waiting for her to move forward. She looks directly into his eyes, making up her mind. As they head out together she begins. "Mr. Yorke, or is it Lord Harry? I will have my explanation now. I know what I saw. I will pry it out of you even if it's the last thing I do. I'm nothing if not tenacious. Have you heard the phrase stubborn as a mule? My father coined it when I was a child."

Hal sighs resigned. "Very well. But just call me Hal."

She smiles at him. "Very well. But just call me Sylvie."


	2. Chapter 2: How Do You Court Them

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Incredibly thankful beyond words for the world that Toby Whithouse has created and for the character of Hal that Damien Molony has brought to life. This is just a spark that I had to write down. All mistakes are my own.

Thanks again to Saemay for the encouragement and the proofing. :)

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**Ch 2. How do you Court them**

Hal had agreed, reluctantly, to meet her again after revealing to her his true nature. He had committed himself to a life devoid of, well, _life_. The knowledge from his past attempts ingrained, he had put in place structure and had been prepared to cut all ties to both humanity and the supernatural world. However, he could not disappear altogether. He had to maintain a persona, a facade, and he'd soon found himself running the risk of unraveling in the face of all the human tedium. Then she had emerged with a spark that he found... _compelling, enticing_. _Drawn to her like a moth to flame._ But in this case, it was the flame that was in peril of being quenched out.

Sylvie now classified her time into two categories: tedious days without him, fascinating hours with him. She looked forward to her private talks with Hal more than she'd anticipated. Not that he talked much. Yes - he'd told her he was a vampire, had been for 280 years. Yes - he'd told her he drank blood, he was dangerous, had done despicable things, killed hundreds of people. Yes - he'd told her he shouldn't even be near her. He had been clean since that time in the cellar but could revert at any moment. But underneath it all, Sylvie just saw a man in pain and sadness. She wanted to help him stay clean, wanted him to find some measure of peace. She couldn't deny her attraction to him._ Like a lamb to the slaughter._ No, she refused to believe that. So she set out as her mission to not take no for an answer.

* * *

A dreary afternoon. Sylvie had been allowed to visit Hal for a tour of his estate, but the rain confined them indoors.

"Shall we a game of cards now?" Sylvie suggests after their light supper .

"A most... welcome activity." He acquiesces with a nod.

Sylvie returns with a deck and they play a few rounds. However she is soon drumming her fingers on the table in disinterest. "Am I straining your attention?" he asks suddenly, curtly. She ignores him, plays her turn, then begins her drumming once more. He glances every two seconds at her hands, back and forth, until the irritation is unbearable and he briefly touches her hand to a stop. Sylvie goes still. It is the first time he's voluntarily touched her. They exchange a look, she with a small smile, he with an long suffering sigh.

"Hal, tell me something from your past. A happy memory."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why ever not? I've shared some of mine with you."

"Yes, but **yours** don't tend to end with 'and then I killed them and drank their blood.'"

"Are those really your happy memories?"

"No, of course not. It's just... they are all intertwined. If I dwell on any one, the rest want to flood in as well."

Sylvie, seeing a haunted sadness overcome him, regrets her impulsiveness. Somewhat. "Well then we need to make this game more amusing."

"Cards are not meant to be amusing. They are an exercise for the mind."

"They can be that as well. I propose we change up the rules."

"You can't change the rules, that's barbaric!"

But Sylvie does not heed his words. She goes on to list a dizzying amount of 'alternative plays' they can try. When she finally pauses for breath, Hal interrupts with a vexed look, "That is quite... inventive... however..."

But Sylvie adds, "Well, then I propose another strategy. I shall get another deck, we can mix them up, and then..."

Wincing, Hal interrupts before she can go any further, finally acquiescing. "Very well, I will tell you a 'happy memory' then. Just pleease! The wonders of your _imaginative_ logic never cease."

She smiles at her small victory.

He pauses, looking uncertain. Then he begins, "I was born, I lived in a brothel..."

"A brothel is your happy memory?"

Hal gives her a withering look. "No, of course not. As I was saying, I lived in a brothel and had no knowledge of my father. Nor which of the six... filles de rues ... was my true mother. It was not a happy life, but there were stolen moments. I remember a summer afternoon after supper spent in a meadow with all six together, an unusual occurrence. I sat in Rachel's lap, still young enough to do so, as she combed her fingers through my hair and we listened to Gwen as she sang a sweet tune. Well, hummed really, she did that quite often." He trails off, thinking of having heard Sylvie hum to herself a few times.

"And?"

"And what?" He looks back up at her.

"Is there more to this memory?"

He stares at her a few seconds before replying, his voice hardening slightly, "That night a customer beat Gwen. She died from her injuries two days later. As I said, it was _not_ a happy life."

Sylvie looks down, tears in her eyes. She wants to take back her words. _Not a happy life. Not a happy death._

She looks up, whispering powerless words, "I'm sorry."

He shows no emotion, just gives a curt nod.

Then she braves, "We shall endeavor to create more happy memories for you."

* * *

"Sylvie, stop your...boisterous... laughter." Hal says, looking at her from under furrowed brows, disapprovingly, as he's wont to do often in her presence.

Between giggles Sylvie manages out, "I know what you really want to say. 'Sylvie, stop your cackling, you mental fruitcake!'"

Hal maintains his impassive face, but she's rewarded with a small twitch of his lips.

"It's just the image of you falling on your arse in the muck, squeeling piglets climbing all over you, outsmarted, all because you were scared and running away from a girl."

"I am a ruthless killer!" He says indignantly. "Really, I was protecting _her_."

"Sounds like you were protecting yourself." She raises an eyebrow. "You'd been clean for thrice longer than you've been this time. Could you not have given her a chance? Is it really that hard to let yourself feel, to get close to someone? "

He turns very somber, she can see the pain he carefully masks, can see it eating away at his insides.

"It's bad enough to live, while others die. Worst, to be the cause of their death. I have been the angel of death to so many Sylvie. Too innumerable to count, and yet I remember **every. single. one.** Allowing myself to feel - in the end it's those I feel for that get hurt. It is better to shut myself away from the temptation."

"But if you can't feel then what's the point? "

Hal doesn't answer. How many times had he asked himself just the same question. _What was the point?_ His belief in an almighty, good being, in fate, in himself, had been erased long before that lance had brought him to his choice. But he turns to her, sees her freshness, her vibrancy, **her life**, and thinks perhaps there was a reason for him to have _existed _this long. But he doesn't give in to hope.

* * *

Hal had seemed extra nervous when she told him she would be coming to Sir Morgan's soirée at the stately Newport home, but had reluctantly shared prior plans to attend as well. She'd arrived and immediately begun searching for him. She finally spots him in the back garden, the party had moved inside from the drizzle that had begun. She brightens as she thinks he's simply waiting for her but then she observes that he is talking. To no one. Not just absentmindedly, he's holding a conversation with... nothing.

Then she sees him offer his arm to this nothing and walk indoors. She remains there until sometime later he appears, having been searching for her after learning her family had arrived.

"Sylvie, there you are. Would you like to come inside, you are getting positively soaked."

"Hal, can vampires go mad?"

He gives her a puzzled look.

"I saw you out here, talking to nothing."

He looks at her stoically.

"Who were you talking to Hal? What were you talking to?" She opens her eyes wide. "Are there invisible vampires out there as well?!"

He lets out a small shaky laugh. "No, not invisible. Though our reflections cannot be captured." She waits patiently for him to continue. "I was talking to a ghost. They exist as well."

"A ghost? Can you actually see ghosts? Does everyone become a ghost? Are they roaming around everywhere? Who was the one you were talking to? Did you know her when she was alive? How did she die? Is she pretty?"

Hal gets a panicked look but smoothes his face. "Sylvie," He huffs, "slow down. Yes I can see ghosts. Their curse comes from the same place as mine does. Only people with unfinished business become ghosts, their door to the afterlife doesn't appear, and they tend to stay rooted in the place or near the people they knew in life." He pauses, conceding, "I knew her... briefly."

She narrows her eyes. "When you say 'knew her'?"

"Jesus Sylvie, no. We were... **are**...just... _friends_."

Sylvie takes in his discomfort, but decides to push in a hushed tone, "How did she die?"

He closes his eyes, exhaling, then opens them and looks directly at her. His eyes are suddenly red rimmed, with unshed tears. He says simply, "I killed her."

Sylvie doesn't look away but she doesn't know what to say. _What do you say to a murderer about the person he murdered?_ _I'm sorry you killed her? I'm sorry she's still haunting you? _And then the thought comes unbidden _Will I haunt him after...? _She looks away at that, shuddering. But then she steels her resolve and after several moments she nods and tells him the most significant thing, "I'm sorry."

"No it's just as well. You _need _to hear this. She was a young girl, quite similar to you. She thought she could be my... friend... as well and I toyed with her for a little while before killing her. Mercilessly."

"Yes, but that was the other you."

"He is always there, waiting. It will be only a matter of time." He seems extra introspective, extra morose. Being confronted by someone you killed would do that.

But Sylvie doesn't want him to dwell - she seeks to have him live beyond his past, to have hope for the future. To have hope in himself. And in her. She hazards a quick light touch on his shoulder. "Not if you keep fighting. Not if I help you keep fighting."

For once the indignant look that accompanies someone touching him is absent.

* * *

"Hal I've decided. We shall have the play after all!"

Sylvie suddenly leaps up from her chair on the other side of the hearth of her living room, upsetting her dog from her lap. They had been sitting companionably reading, though he idly glanced her way a few times. She alternated with petting her dog - curiously named Duck, he hadn't inquired why - and playing with the cross at her throat. He told himself he was looking at the cross, admiring the craftsmanship, nothing more.

Hal raises his eyebrows. "It's practically a typhoon out there at the moment. We can hardly travel in these conditions all the way to the playhouse."

"No, we shall put on the play ourselves! It would amuse me greatly."

"I don't do plays."

"Oh Hal, pleease? You have to learn to let your hair down!"

Hal gives her an uncertain expression.

Sylvie laughs at his look. "It means to relax, to enjoy yourself. It's my birthday! The bloody rain has once again foiled our plans. It will be just a little fun." And before he can object further she runs out, rushing somewhere upstairs. Hal begins tapping his fingers in consternation.

She comes down, clothing in her hands, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet of course! However we must do it properly. You know, in his time, the men had to play the part of the ladies. Well, I suppose you **do **know." She smiles and approaches him with the clothes. Hal is so caught by surprise she manages to place a lace cap on his head before he can fend her off.

He crosses his arms, looking highly offended. "I most certainly **will not **wear women's clothing. Besides, that doesn't even make any sense! The principal characters are a man and woman. Why wouldn't you play the woman?"

"Because, " Sylvie answers, "it is more interesting this way."

Hal looks up to the heavens in a pleading motion.

He huffs, "Sylvie, this is ludicrous."

"No, what's ludicrous is that we've known each other for a while now, I count you as a dear friend, and it is customary for friends to impart gifts on birthdays. As you forgot that today is my birthday, despite the fact that I told you three times at least, this can be your gift to me. I shall have my Shakespeare!"

"I never forget anything. It's just that... I was unsure what would be... appropriate."

"Romeo and Juliet, Hal. Did I not mention that it's my favorite and that is why we were to attend the play? "

He licks his lips nervously. "Perhaps a less... controversial... play then?"

"I promise we don't have to act out any of the kiss scenes. You won't even have to touch me."

Hal says nothing.

Sylvie gives a sad sigh. "Was it too much to ask for a little romance today? I spurned all my suitors waiting for the right man. One who would woo me with lovely words." She puts on a hurt look, "Oh, how silly of me to entertain such childish fantasies. I shall die an old maid, unloved. Am I really so unlovable?"

Hal gives her a long measured look. He removes the cap, takes the clothing in her hands and places them on the side table beside him. Then he steps close to her, closer than he has ever let her be. Close enough that she sees the sun filtering through his long lashes, she drowns in his eyes. "Sylvie," He begins, his voice seems to caress her name.

"Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!  
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night  
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear,  
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.  
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows  
As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.  
The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand,  
And, touching hers, make blessèd my rude hand.  
Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight!  
For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night."

He continues to stare into her eyes. "Happy Birthday Sylvie." He says quietly.

It takes her a few moments to remember to breathe.

"Hal." She barely whispers, "Would you excuse me for a moment?"

"Hmm." He acquiesces with a nod, lips pursed. Five seconds later he hears a squeal from the next room. His mouth twitches with a small smile.

* * *

"... and I had a shield, a red one." Hal had actually been opening up during their walk in town this morning. It felt odd, he was very protective of his memories. But somehow when he was with Sylvie, he felt the urge at odd moments to indulge in her requests. He did however leave out the bit about flaying peasants for looking at him funny.

"I've often wondered what must it have been like, living in those days. I've sometimes fantasized about it." Sylvie takes on a far-away look. "Knights in shining armor, jousts, feasts. You know my family comes from a long line of Earls dating back from the 1100's."

"Well life then was actually much as it is now. People live. People die. Wars & sickness happen. Everything goes round and round and comes back again. Except it was quite a bit filthier then." Hal pauses, squinting in memory. "I did meet an Earl of Arundel once. Erm... Thomas Howard I believe. Quite a nasty business that I'm sorry to say I was tangentially involved in. In my defense, I wasn't... myself at the time..."

Hal suddenly turns to look back with a frown as he notices that Sylvie has paused behind him.

"Sylvie, is everything all right?"

Sylvie knows the story of her great, great, great, great uncle, confined to an asylum. Or at least she thought she knew. _Hal had something to do with that?!_ She can't help but suddenly feel apprehensive as the thought sinks in. Hal has been alive for 300 years. 300 years! The history he's experienced, the progress he's seen. The thousands of people he's hurt, he's killed. She pauses with her eyes closed tight, tampering down the edges of fear and disgust at that thought. Those are thoughts for the evening, when they've bid their adieus. Thoughts to keep her up awake at night, wondering what she's doing, why she's doing it. Wondering if she'll be next. _No... don't think about it now. He's a different man now._ With a heavy sigh she swallows down the bile, bites back the tears. Then she opens her eyes to look at his concerned ones, puts on an apologetic smile and says. "Yes, thank you. Just bit overwhelmed. You are a walking encyclopedia. Sometimes it catches me off guard, that's all."

She broadens her smile to ease his concern. "Shall we visit the tea shop now? "

He sees she's hiding something but doesn't push her. Instead, he considers, then awkwardly extends his arm to her. Her doe eyes widen in surprise. He steels himself to feel her arm in his, to have her warm pulse so near him, her neck mere inches away, the rush of the blood through her veins in physical contact with him. _You can do this, you can do this._ It's only a short minute to the shop.

Sylvie's heart threatens to leap out of her chest as she sees his offering. The significance is not lost to her. As lightly as she can manage she threads her hand through the crook of his elbow and keeps from pressing herself into him as she would like, leaving a foot wide gap between their bodies, trying not to breathe.

It is an awkward, tense step forward, but it is progress.

* * *

"Good God, Sylvie, you're not actually crying are you?" Hal has entered the sitting room of her home, coming to get her for their planned ride.

Despite her thoughts and feelings, Sylvie can't help but smile at the way Hal's voice cracks on the last word. _He really is rubbish with emotions isn't he._ She thinks of her Nan, wonders what she would have thought of Hal, (without knowing the vampire stuff of course.) He is still reserved, but she's seen cracks emerge, has had glimpses of the man he could be. He seems calmer than before, more gentle and kind. _Nan would have liked this Hal. _At that her smile falters, tears can't be squelched this time.

"We just received word that my grandmother died. When I was young I lived with her for a time. I have not seen her some months and now she's gone."

"I'm sorry." He says in a calm manner. "Would you like to cancel our ride?"

Wiping her tears Sylvie shakes her head. "No, no, I have been looking forward to it for days. It will be good to go have fresh air. That's one of the things Nan loved to do with me. We would roam for hours picking wildflowers or berries. I would very much like to go pick some wildflowers in her memory."

They set out on their horses, both quiet in their thoughts for a very long time. He occasionally sees tears flow down her face but remains silent. The winds bring sudden rain clouds to cover the fitful sun, drizzle begins to fall. Hal is about to suggest they turn back but Sylvie supersedes him.

"Hal, what happens when people die?"

"I'm not sure..."

"You've seen hundreds, thousands of people die, have you not? And you say you see ghosts, that people with unfinished business are left behind. What about the others? Surely you've seen something?"

"No. I mean, I'm not sure that I should tell you. The more of the supernatural world you encounter, the more liable you are to be brought into its madness."

"Hal, I need to know. Please."

Hal pauses. _I don't want her to know more. _But perhaps it would be best. It would be best for _her _to realize that the supernatural world was filled with horrors, not wonders. He explains the things he knows, and the things he suspects. Doors. Corridors. Purgatory. The men with sticks and ropes. The Devil.

More tears. She looks off in a daze as the rain falls harder now.

Hal says sympathetically, "I know this is all difficult to process. It's become commonplace for me, but to hear it for the first time... " He trails off, not certain how to comfort her.

Sylvie tries to take in his words. Is that where Nan is? And her brother Elliot, her sweet Elliot? Or are they in a better place, passed on through a peaceful door into the arms of previous loved ones. _Where will I go when...?_

She's not paying attention and her horse rears suddenly, depositing her to the muddy ground, hitting her head and twisting her ankle in a wrenching angle.

"Sylvie!" she groggily hears him. She blinks the water out of her eyes, sits and looks as he's running toward her. But suddenly he pulls up short, several feet away from her.

Hal frowns, the questioning words he'd intended stuck in the back of his throat as he's suddenly preoccupied with a realization. Then his frown morphs, his eyes widen with alarm. He whispers, "Sylvie, you're bleeding."

She touches her head and looks down all about herself but doesn't find anything. She pulls up her skirt and then she sees it: a scrape above her riding boots, where a rock must have jabbed through her leggings.

She looks back up to see Hal's hands balled tightly, his body tense. He says haltingly, "I must. Go."

Her first reaction is to berate him, but she sees he is struggling. He has told her about the temptation blood poses him, had seen him strapped down like one would tie a dangerous animal, but this is the first time for her to see first-hand the actual effect it has on him. She tries to get up as she says, "Hal, no don't leave me please. It hurts and I'm getting drenched."

"I'm so sorry." He backs away.

"Hal! Don't." The ankle feels like it's on fire and the slick mud is making it impossibe for her to lift herself up. She locks her eyes with his and pleads with him. "Hal, fight it. Please, for me. Fight the urge. Your mind is the key. You have been in control for six years now, you can do this." She tries to stand again but can't manage it.

Hal is visibly trembling, his lower lip quivering with his shaky breath, his eyes gone wide. "**I. Can't.**" He scrambles backwards and turns to get on his horse.

Desperately she calls, "Hal, you **arse**, don't you bloody leave me here alone!" But he does not stop. She watches as he turns the horse and urges it instantly into a gallop. She screams his name in frustration, in pain, not caring if he hears it or not, hoping he does. And that he'll turn back. But she watches as his form disappears, through her streaming tears.

Why is she surprised at all? Why is she reacting this way. She knows what he is, he's told her many times that it's not just a craving, more a physically altering need. Still, a part of her had been in denial. "But it's just a scratch," she whispers to no one.

Is this really what she wants? Someone who will run away when she's hurt or worse will likely kill her? They had been getting on, she'd felt happy. _Oh Nan, I wish you were here right now to help me decide._ Why did God - he hadn't mention God, but surely? - _why did God put him in my path that night, why did he put him in my dreams every night after?_ "Why couldn't I have just forgotten him?" Sylvie gives into the tears, into her grief...

Hal steels himself for what he'll see as the returning party approaches her. He'd ridden as fast as the horse could go, whipping it mercilessly, taking out his frustration on the poor beast. Once at her house he'd jumped off the horse and run to find help. Her father and a groom had accompanied him back to the place she'd fallen, Lord Arundel repeatedly asking why Hal hadn't just brought her back. His jaw hurts from clenching it. How could he explain? _Because I would have brought you a corpse._

He berates himself, hates himself for his weakness. _It was just a scratch. _But Jesus, just remembering the smell...

He sees her sitting where he'd left her, drenched and muddy but sitting calmly and surprisingly dried eyed. Hard to believe it is the same Sylvie he'd left not more than an hour ago. He'd heard her scream as he'd fled. She brushes away her father's concerns, smiles at his chiding. She doesn't look at Hal the entire ride back, she sitting sideways in front of her father's saddle, he a fair distance back leading her lame horse. He wouldn't let the groom take it, he needed an excuse to stay behind, upwind.

As they finally come in sight of the house she raises her eyes to his. They are unreadable.

Her father says nothing to his excuses, simply carries her in while Hal remains outside, looking after them. Sylvie keeps her gaze locked with his as the door slams shut.

* * *

* There really were Earls of Arundel, the one Hal mentions lived from 1628-1677. He was institutionalized for most of his life.

* Sir Morgan's home in Newport is Tredegar house, where Lady Mary's scenes were filmed in S5. Sir Charles Morgan, 2nd Baronet, lived there during the setting of this story.


	3. Chapter 3: Charm and Wit

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Incredibly thankful beyond words for the world that Toby Whithouse has created and for the character of Hal that Damien Molony has brought to life. All mistakes are my own.

Thanks again to Saemay.

This story is growing a bit longer than I'd originally anticipated and I'm having loads of fun with it. Thank you to everyone who's left reviews or has otherwise told me they like it. It gives me warm fuzzies.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Charm and Wit**

129 . . . 130 . . . 131 . . .

_The nightmares are back._

132 . . . 133 . . . 134 . . .

Well truly they never leave him; he can never really get away from the type of things he's done. The memories cling to him like a second skin during the day, tight, like an itch he just can't quite scratch. Then at night they let themselves have free reign. But for months now they had seemed more... manageable.

135 . . . 136 . . . 137 . . .

_Now._ He pauses with arms extended shakily. Now he sees her in place of some of his victims. She just looks at him with the same unreadable eyes. It wakes him with a cold sweat, his stomach turning.

138 . . . 139 . . . 140 . . .

It was such a stupid thing, it really had been such a small cut. And he'd been clean for years now. But he hadn't dared trust himself.

141 . . . 142 . . . 143 . . .

He has applied himself to his routines with renewed passion in hopes of staving off the agitation, but his compulsive idiosyncrasies have returned. For three weeks he'd expected a polite letter from her father telling him to stay away from his daughter, had welcomed it. But none had come.

144 . . . 145 . . . 146 . . .

Hushed voices in the hall outside his room interrupt his counting. He pauses waiting for them to recede but realizes they are not moving. No matter, the servants know not to interrupt him.

147 . . . 148 . .

The voices have become louder, insistent. He can hear his butler's protests and a female voice. Wincing in annoyance at the continued distraction, Hal lithely jumps up, curt words at the ready, and yanks the door open.

_It's her._

Sylvie stares, as the door opens, right into hazel eyes mirroring her surprise. Then she becomes aware of his topless state, heat rushing to her cheeks. Is that a blush she sees?

Hal awkwardly lunges back inside for his linen undershirt, stuttering "Sylvie, what, what are you doing here?" He puts the shirt on quicker than he thought even his vampire reflexes allowed.

With a raised eyebrow and formal tone she says "Forgive my intrusion Mr. Yorke, but I have urgent matters to discuss with you downstairs. I'll give you time to compose yourself." And with that she walks away.

Hal winces at her tone. As he prepares, he tells himself he's not concerned, what is there to be concerned over, she's just a human. It has been amusing for a while, but better to break off any ties now than to continue down a path that could only end in pain.

_Not concerned at all._

He taps his fingers in a rhythm, channeling his focus, as he descends the stairs.

She's sitting at the desk in his library. So different than his last memory of her - dark riding dress soiled and sodden, hair a tangled wet mess, mud and that vacant look that's been haunting him marring her face. Now her exquisite face is serene as she looks out the window, her hair up in a chignon revealing the long lines of her graceful neck, a simple cornflower blue dress accentuating her loveliness.

"Miss Arundel,"

Sylvie turns to see Hal entering the room, once again prim, proper and awkward. She has to suppress a laugh at his bow. It's good to see her Hal again.

"Allow me to apologize for my lack of gentlemanly decorum the last time we were together. You must understand my reasons. Any contact with human blood could bring out my monstrous side. I just cannot risk it."

"Oh Hal, you don't have to be so posh with me. I was only teasing you upstairs. I wanted to see you squirm a bit. Incidentally, I told my family you are a delicate duckling, that you faint at the sight of blood and we just have to be careful around you. I thought it better than to tell them you might go on a killing rampage if someone pricks a finger." In a more serious manner, Sylvie continues, "Hal, I **do** understand. That is why I chose to come. I admit I was fit to be tied for a while, but part of the anger was directed at myself. I know what you are and how blood affects you. It was stupid of me to react the way I did, but I **am** only human. Once we buried my grandmother and I healed, I realized more than anything that... I missed you."

Hal sighs with relief. He's surprised at how much she has become part of his routines.

Laughing, Sylvie says, "Don't look at me like that. I missed you. There I said it again. Not to worry, you don't have to say you missed me back. You would think I was coming at you with a stake or something."

Hal smoothes his face, not realizing he'd given her any look, before replying diplomatically, "Well, I am not sure where this leaves us."

"It leaves us right back where we were three weeks ago. I will continue to provide you distractions with my "inventive" logic, which I know is your way of saying my looney ideas, while you continue to provide me amusement with your indignant reactions. No time like the present. What do you say we go wade in the river, I'm sure there are some water plants you don't have in your field journal already. Or perhaps climb some trees? I've been restricted indoors all this time as my ankle healed and it was dreadful. I want to go experience the outdoors. Did you know name means 'of the woods'? My parents have always said they chose my name well."

With an exasperated sigh, Hal answers, "Would you like some tea? Then perhaps we can take a walk down to the river, but absolutely no wading will be involved."

"Oh Hal, very well, but if we pass any good climbing trees they are fair game!"

* * *

"He should stay clear of all diluted drinks and cordials really." - Pearl S4 E2

* * *

Hal looks around the room anxiously. He shouldn't have come here today, but Sylvie sent him a note requesting his presence, saying she had something important to tell him in person.

He's feeling thirsty.

The bloodlust has been spiking increasingly since the day Sylvie had fallen off her horse, the following weeks before her visit to pardon him taxing on his concentration. In addition, he had received some disturbing news from London, the preoccupation eating away at his resolve. And here he is surrounded by people, the thudding of a dozen hearts all competing with each other for his attention. They meld together in a discordant symphony which is all too pleasing to his ears. His mouth waters in anticipation. He licks his lips reflexively.

In a desperate attempt to quench his thirst, or at the very least distract it, he moves to the refreshments table and begins quaffing. First the tea. It should be comforting, satisfying, but instead feels flat, bland. Then the punch. He pauses, letting out a small snicker. Surely Sylvie hasn't had time to doctor up this batch. But the liquid is vile nonetheless. Finally he moves to what he presumes is a liquor cabinet. Perhaps the fire from something strong can dull the gnawing in his belly. His eyes scan the bottles and then scan again. Unbelievably not a single whiskey or scotch in sight. _What sort of hostess is Lady Francis? All she has are - what are these things?_ He takes a bottle, looking at the label. 'Elderflower Cordial'. He looks dubiously at the other bottles, each saying they are a cordial of one type or another. _Those contain alcohol, do they not?_ Finding nothing else to drink, he gives it a try.

Sylvie enters in a proper bad mood, her mother having made her late. She's anxious to find Hal, to tell him about her "decision". She scans the room, expecting to see him by one of the exits, as usual, away from all the people. But instead she's surprised to see him surrounded. By a group of women. _ This is so un-Hal like. _She's gotten used to odd behaviour around Hal, but it usually involves him _avoiding_ people. She sees him lean close to one with golden hair, and practically runs over in her haste. She tells herself she's concerned about their safety, nothing more. Donning a polite smile she ignores the women and addresses Hal. "Mr. Yorke, why this is uncharacteristic of you. To what occasion do these ladies warrant the pleasure of your company?"

He turns to her, his eyes glassy, a dazed look on his face. "Ah Miss Sylvie, how lovely for you to join us. I was just telling Miss Eleanor here that she reminds me of a conquest a few years back in Madrid. I wooed her with a thousand tulips." The women around him giggle maddeningly.

The word conquest does nothing good for her mood. "Really Hal, how very..._ resourceful_... of you. I'm sure it couldn't have been too easy to acquire those that far south." As she maneuvers through the women to his side, she says in a lower voice for his ears only, "And how long did she get to enjoy those flowers before Mr. I'm-hungry-now came along?" Raising her voice and turning to them she continues, "Ladies I'm sure Casanova here would love to regale you with many a tale of his past escapades, but I fear that I must steal him away. His presence is requested in the library." She pulls on the cuff of his tailcoat to get him moving. Surprisingly he lets her lead him away, not a single snide remark or askance look.

"Tarts," she says under her breath, "Hussies, the lot of them." She's rewarded by an actual laugh from Hal.

"Sylvie you have quite a colorful vocabulary for a lady of your stature."

She looks at him closely as she leads him down to the library at the end of the hall. He looks almost sick, his eyes slightly unfocused, a dewy sheen on his brown, a slight trembling.

"You're looking a bit ansty Hal, is everything alright?" If it weren't for the fact that she knows their hostess fanatically eschews all manner of alcoholic beverages, she would say he was soused.

She leads him into the library, closes the door, and rounds on him. "Hal! Are you somehow drunk? You're not close to snapping are you? Why did you stay with all those people in there? We should get you home safe."

But Hal isn't really listening to her words because he's captivated by her lips. He can hear her heart, its rhythm elevating with each passing second. He's mesmerized by that sound, by the pulse he sees at her neck, by the cut of her gown showing off her creamy skin. He's helpless to the warm rush of sensations that begin flooding him, urging him to get close to her.

Sylvie frowns at his unresponsiveness, then gasps as he moves towards her, backing her up to the wall next to the doors. All thoughts of the scolding she'd been planning fly out the window as he pins her to the wall with his proximity. He's staring down at her with a dreamy intensity.

"I like your mouth."

Her eyes involuntarily travel to his full lips.

"I like your neck too."

She knows she should be concerned with that statement, but her stomach is doing all manner of fluttering and her heart is thundering in her chest, her heartbeat audible in her ears.

Then ever so lightly he begins caressing her arms with his cool, slim fingers. Sylvie, hopelessly enthralled that he's even touching her, doesn't question his actions. Little shocks start to course from her arms to the pit of her belly. His hands grasp her arms and rub a trail up to her shoulders. Then one hand moves up, starts stroking her neck as he continues to capture her with the irresistible intensity in his eyes. She's feeling dizzy now, barely breathing, and she struggles to think. There was something to be concerned about in his motion – _Oh yes, he's a vampire. They get all bitey around necks_ – but she can't seem to move. All her senses are flooded with the smell of him, the feel of him.

He begins to lean forward, whether to kiss her or bite her she doesn't know, can't bring herself to care. However as his lips are a breath away from hers, the door bangs open.

His head snaps to the side, irritated at the interruption, allowing Sylvie a second to recover her senses. Well, as much as she can considering his hands are still at her neck and shoulder.

But his demeanor stiffens at once. "Werewolf!" He growls out huskily.

Just like that the spell is broken. Sylvie turns her head to the door as well. She sees there a couple, the man half a head taller than Hal, the woman even more petite than herself. The man has scars along his temple, his earlobe missing.

"Lord Harry, I thought I recognized you out there." The man says angrily, with a slight Spanish accent.

"What do you want?" Hal responds, icily. " Never mind, I don't know who you are, and I don't care, but if you value your life you will leave **now**."

"What do I want? Vengeance. Don't you recognize me,_ Lord _Harry?" He spits out the title as a profanity, "You vampires are so egotistical, so narcissistic, never noticing anyone but yourselves. It's a good thing you have no reflections, you'd never leave the front of a mirror."

Hal hisses and drops the hand from her neck, turning toward the werewolf. The right hand on her shoulder tightens painfully.

"My name is Federico. 12 years ago your lot captured me in Spain along with three other werewolves. For almost a year you kept us chained, imprisoned, forcing us to fight each other, fight humans, even some of your own kind. You degraded us, brought us out like pets, throwing us scraps, coming to kick us down, forcing us to watch while you played your sadistic games. I was the last one of my brethren left by the time you left. The next _hijo de puta_ was not as vigilant as you were, and I was able to escape. I have been searching for you for a long time. You seemed to have a trick for disappearing."

Sylvie listens to all this with great interest, and a bit of trepidation. Here is someone who knew Hal in his darker past. Was she ready to hear what he is – _no__** was**_ - capable of?

And then she notices the wooden cross in the man's hand, large, thick, the bottom chiseled into a stake. Hal doesn't move, doesn't say anything more, but he is trembling like a leaf, his breath shaky with anger or fear - what exactly she can't tell. But she senses the tension gathering in him and knows she needs to diffuse the situation. Whatever Hal was, he was no longer, and she doesn't want to see him become that again.

Sylvie begins. "Sir, I think it best if you leave immediately. I am horrified to hear of what befell you, but I assure you, this man is not the one to blame. He is not the same one you knew then and –"

Federico turns to look at her, sniffing in her direction. "Has this one used his charms on you? Don't you know what he is, what he's capable of? Had I not arrived you'd be dead by now Señorita. Step away, run, I will deal with him."

Sylvie looks up at Hal. His body is taught, the shaking now like a plucked string, humming with a dangerous melody, his jaw is clenched, his concentration acute. He seems poised on the brink of something.

Softy she says "Hal." He doesn't look at her. Stronger. "Hal! Look at me Hal!" Still no response. Closing her eyes in resolve, she opens them again, whispering. "Lord Harry."

His head swivels to look at her. Thankfully she finds his eyes clear, her Hal is still there, though his lips are parted, the tips of his fangs unmistakable. Braving whatever might happen she places a hand on his arm. "Hal, step back please. You need to let me go." He's clearly still dazed, but some of the tension in him eases as he lets her shove his arm down, allowing her to extricate herself from his grasp. She stands between the vampire and the werewolf.

Again she tries to reason. "Federico. I do know what he is - **my friend**. He is haunted, cursed. He is a man who has to fight against himself, against his inner nature and he does so with every fiber of his being. He kills himself resisting, being good, fighting to be human. I don't know exactly what a werewolf is, but I can see that you too are haunted and cursed. You are also a man fighting against a force that threatens to overwhelm you."

He interrupts, "I am nothing like that beast! Don't be fooled by his pretty face and manners. He is _un diablo_ and he needs to go back to the hell that spawned him!"

Sylvie looks to the woman. "Is she a werewolf as well?" The woman, trembling, barely shakes her head in denial. "She is a human, just as I am. You were forced to fight, you were forced to kill, and you did so. You look like a very dangerous man to me. How do I know she is not in danger?"

At that he pulls himself up. "I would never hurt Gemma. I only become the wolf one night a month, and I do it safely away from her, away from everyone. I cage myself."

Federico pauses before continuing, "But the vampires, they flaunt themselves, they think the world is an oyster, theirs for the picking. ** He** was their leader. **He** was the worst. They made us fight in their "dog" fights, but their cruelty was not limited to us, nor to humans. Do you know what he did to his own kind? He and the other one, Jacob, liked to toy with the lesser ones, the ones they thought stupid, or those they sought to make examples of. They made a sport of, calling it "werewolf roulette". They drained humans daily, filling decanters with their blood and glutting freely, so there was never a shortage of blood. Then they took blood from us. It burns them so they made the lesser ones do it. It kills them to drink it. They set up cups with blood, some human, some werewolf. Then they took wagers and forced the undesirable ones to choose, each in turns. I can still remember the smell as the losers turned to ash."

Sylvie pales at the story, not trusting herself to look back at Hal, who she can feel just inches behind her, his breath shaky on her neck.

"Hal is not this man anymore. He's truly changed. He... I don't know how to explain it, but drinking blood triggers something in him, and I think that other man takes over, suppresses the good in him. I glimpsed that man once, and I can assure you, he is no longer here. This man is good. He is not to blame for the things that happened in the past. Please." She glances to Gemma. "If you love her, if you've found happiness, peace in her, if you fight what you are for her, then know that he fights the same battles. Give him the same chance you now have to find some happiness, some peace. I cannot expect that you will forget what you endured, I cannot expect that you can forgive Lord Harry for what he did to you, to others. But I ask you to give _Hal_ a chance. I would not wish you taken away from her. Don't take him away from me. I promise you I will help him stay clean, I will help him fight."

She jumps slightly as she feels Hal's hand on her back, but doesn't dare look back.

Gemma goes up to Federico and whispers in his ear. Sylvie sees the man is reluctant, but he backs down. "I will leave now. I cannot stand the sight of this _pedazo de mierda_ any longer. But I will not be very far. I will be watching." And with that they leave.

After making sure they are not coming back, Sylvie finally turns to Hal. Hal puts his hands on her arms again, and she sees his fangs are still out. "Well Don Juan, it's a good thing you are a lover and not a fighter. I'd hate to see how that would have turned out. We need to get you out of here before he changes his mind. And can you please put those away before you hurt yourself?"

"I think I'm going to hurt you."

"You don't want to do something you'll regret in the morning, Hal. The Hal remorse bucket overfloweth. And I swear I'll bloody come haunt you if I die before you and I... " She trails off as he starts rubbing his hands on her arms again. She gets an idea. "Hal, if you put your fangs away, I'll let you kiss me." She gives him a coquettish smile.

His fangs retract. She's not sure if it is a good idea to let him kiss her in his current state, she can still see the tension in him, but - "oh fuck it."

She threads her hands into his hair and pulls him down for a kiss. She means for it to be a quick light kiss but - _his lips are as soft as she'd imagined_ - the light press sends heat immediately through her. He tilts his head, parting his lips in invitation and she follows suit as their lips mould themselves together repeatedly. The temptation to sink against him, to pull him close is strong, but when she feels his hands come up to cup her neck she puts her hands on his chest forces him back before he _can_ hurt her.

She pants, trying to catch her breath as she sees his breath is shaky again, his lips still parted a wild look on his face.

"Very well Romeo." she says breathlessly. "Come with me. Let us get you out of here."

Pulling on his coat she gets him to follow her silently through the back of the house out the servant's entrance. She finds his coachman, and all but shoves Hal into the coach. Catching his eyes she says goodbye. "Call on me when you are feeling more yourself."

She stands guard as the coach disappears.

* * *

I have to credit someone for the werewolf roulette idea. I think it was katynewt that mentioned it on Skype, but not 100% sure. Many thanks.

So we all wonder what happens when Hal drinks Kia-Ora right? It's a squash, or cordial, which is a syrupy concentrate that is mixed with water, carbonated or not. While modern Kia-Ora is fruity flavored, these non-alcoholic cordials were popular as early as 1800's and were traditionally made from ginger, elderflower, or chokeberries with lemon or orange mixed in. The version Hal drinks here is pretty concentrated. Based on speculation, I'm going with the theory that it makes Hal drunk, uninhibited, and *ahem* aroused. Somewhat like when he's blood drunk on his date with Alex. But without the blood withdrawals. Sylvie might just have to get her hands on more cordial later. ;D

In case someone doesn't know, Casanova was a real person (1725-1798) while Don Juan is a fictional character. If you don't know what they are famous for, look it up.


	4. Chapter 4: Dancing with the one I love

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Incredibly thankful beyond words for the world that Toby Whithouse has created and for the character of Hal that Damien Molony has brought to life. All mistakes are my own.

I still don't know what I'm doing but still having fun with it.

Thanks again Saemay for proofing. At least I know one person is reading this! :)

* * *

**Chapter 4: Dancing with the one I love**

Two days later Hal is waiting in her parlor. He'd exchanged civilities with her parents, but thankfully they had left him alone after a short while. It no longer surprises him how predictable people are; centuries of manipulation has taught him how to read them with ease. They are overjoyed their daughter has attracted the attention of a well endowed bachelor and are willing to overlook any eccentricities in hopes of a match. He understands their motivations, and is careful to not reveal any intentions that might be misconstrued. He really doesn't know what his intentions are. He lives moment to moment, not thinking or planning beyond his routines, beyond the coping mechanisms that help him live amongst the humans, pretending to be one of them. Sylvie is a distraction, a disruption to his careful order, though not a wholly unwelcome one.

Sitting, waiting is making him feel anxious._ 'The devil finds mischief for idle hands to do.'_ He stands, looking around the room for something to occupy as he tries not to think of the dreams he's had of her since the - incident. In his dreams she is no longer staring up at him as one of his victims; instead he is plagued by inappropriate images and by feelings he should not feel, cannot allow himself to feel. He approaches the piano forte and gives out a little sigh of delight as he sees the deplorable state of the stored sheet music. He begins arranging it by genre, then composer and year, shaking his head disapprovingly at discovering a remarkably large amount of Scottish and Irish folk songs. Tastes these days are so unrefined. He vows to introduce Sylvie to proper music. Despite his distraction, memories of that night keep encroaching in. _Christ, the silken warmth of her skin, the sweetness of her soft lips, the giddy intoxication of her scent -"_

At last he hears the light tread of her descent and quickly forms a tidy stack, placing the pages back in the storage box. He turns as she comes in, a vision in a light flowery dress, a basket of some sort in her hands.

"Miss Arundel," he gives her a formal bow.

"Mr. Yorke," she curtsies back with a smile.

Hal begins, "Once again I must ask your forgiveness for my transgressions. I was not feeling myself and I fear I was under some undue influence. Regardless, my actions were inexcusable."

"Inexcusable is **not** the word I would use Hal," Sylvie says with a smirk.

"I honestly do not understand what happened. I assure you I don't normally act so... outrageously. I had something to drink that seems to have impaired my better judgement,"

"Impaired is also** not** the word I would use Hal."

Hal huffs exasperatedly, "Sylvie I'm trying to apologize here."

"Why Hal? Because you touched me? _Actually_ touched me without flinching? Because you let me kiss you? Or because you kissed me back? None of that needs apologizing for," she stares at him daring him to say more.

Hal stares at back at her with pursed lips.

Sylvie urges him outside. "Come, I've taken the liberty of arranging a picnic basket for us. Shall we picnic today by the pond? It is such a lovely warm day and the wildflowers are positively wild right now." He takes her basket and as they walk out down the path she continues, "Hal. After you left the party I spoke with Mr. and Mrs. De La Villa."

"Who?" Hal says perplexed.

"The werewolf Federico and his wife Gemma."

Hal stops, frowning. "Sylvie, he is dangerous. I suppose I owe you an explanation as to what a werewolf is so that you understand, but it is not prudent to associate with him."

"Tis fine Hal, I heard it all from the werewolf's mouth. Plus, I mostly associated with his wife, whom I found very delightful. I can tell she and I will be great friends."

"Friends? Sylvie, this isn't a_ game_. That man... " He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Sylvie, what he said, it** is** all true. I did all those things to him, to his friends. He wants me dead, and I can't say I blame him for it. However, he might use you to get to me."

"I am fairly certain I convinced him to give you a chance Hal. He was none too happy about it at first, but I invited them to come visit with me at a time that you are also here so that you can become better -"

"You did **what**? That is madness. Vampires and werewolves do not mix. We don't get along, we've been fighting for centuries!"

"Well he's recently moved here so it's either become friends or one or both of you end up dead, which Gemma and I decided is not an option. We **will** have our way on this!"

"Sylvie, you really don't understand! How could you, you are so young, so naive, so _human_. The time you have lived is but a blink compared to what I've lived. The life you have lived is but a sigh compared to the life I've had. This werewolf and I are each cursed with something that is beyond any human emotion, something that is primal, visceral, biological. And we are trying to overcome it, trying to forget a past filled with horrors. Some of those horrors _I_ inflicted on_ him_, and while I'm truly sorry for it, there is nothing I can do to change it. This isn't some small slight easily forgiven."

"You are right Hal, I do not share the same perspective either of you have. But that does not mean I cannot understand it. I don't expect he will forgive you Hal and I didn't ask him to. I simply asked him to give you the same chance he wants at leading a normal life. He should empathize with that."

Hal is unconvinced, remembering with minute detail what happened that year he was in charge of the Spain contingent, what the werewolf experienced. But he doubts this wisp of a girl will listen to reason._ She is so maddeningly opinionated._ He looks around for a way to diplomatically change the subject. He is inspired by her terrier, who had been running next to her, bounding forward then coming back as they walked, but now sits at her feet waiting for them to continue. "Sylvie, why exactly is your terrier named after waterfowl?"

"Duckie?" She looks down fondly. "Ah, my brother named him Duck when we got him. On the first night father brought him to us as a pup he rolled round in mud and we were tasked with bathing him. He was as happy as can be; 'like a duck in water' Elliot said. And thus his name."

"I did not know you had a brother."

"Well, do you suppose you're the only one with secrets Hal? Besides, it's not like you asked." Sylvie looks off introspectively. "Elliot was my twin brother. He died when we were eleven."

"I'm sorry," Hal says genuinely.

Sylvie nods and starts their walking again down the dirt path toward the pond at the edge of her family's property. After a few minutes she begins again, her voice thick with emotion. "It's difficult to talk about him though I still think about him every day. It's difficult to explain what it's like to have a twin, your other half... and then to lose him. He was ill for several months and I refused to leave him." By now Sylvie's tears flow freely. "He was covered in bruises that had no explanation, he wouldn't eat, his eyes sunk in and his ribs started to show. He tried to be brave for mother and father but late at night when the two of us were alone and the nurse was dozing in her chair he would wake writhing in pain. I held him, rocking him and singing to him until he fell asleep again. Eventually even holding him was too much for him to bear and I lay at his side, just my fingers touching his. The night he died, I felt like the good part of my soul was ripped away. It took... a while... before I was a normal version of myself again."

She looks at Hal whose eyes are sad and moist, echoing her pain.

"Vampire, werewolf, human: we all experience suffering, it is unavoidable in life, something we can all empathize with. I found it easy to give in to the pain, to let it consume me. But with time and help from my grandmother I learned that it was worth fighting to move beyond it, that it was possible to find happiness again and to pursue the life I wanted." She wipes her tears and gives him a brave smile.

Hal acknowledges her smile with a small one of his own as they walk side by side.

When they reach their destination, Hal spreads a blanket for her under one of the Elm trees lining one side of the pond and they sit quietly, each lost in their own thoughts for a while having tea and biscuits. The day is warm, laden with the smell of the wildflowers dotting the landscape. The golden sun lending rich color to the landscape, the fluttering butterflies and the singing birds all fill Sylvie's heart with lightness and hope. Before long she leaps up excitedly, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Come now m'lord, lets dance you and I, shall we? You've always rebuffed me before but I think it's proper time we danced together." She tries to take his hands and pull him up but Hal quickly pulls away from her attempts. He rises gracefully.

"I don't dance." He says simply

"Surely you jest Hal." She says mirthfully. "You are a member of the landed gentry. It's in your job description, right along with making polite conversation, riding a horse, and playing at cards. You are quite the cunning conversationalist, you sit a horse as if you were born on one, and your card playing is precise. Though I suppose some shortcomings are only to be expected. Are you extremely bad at dancing and therefore do not wish to suffer the embarrassment? I will make a promise to not laugh, not too much at least." She grins playfully.

Hal gives a long suffering sigh. "I assure you, I have never been bad at anything in my life." One of her eyebrows lifts incredulously. "Dancing requires a level of... intimacy... that I do not feel is healthy, to either party."

"So, you don't want to touch me?" Sylvie teases with mock hurt and innocence.

"Sylvie we've been over this. How do I make you understand? It is as if my body is a cage, my whole being confined into minute movements. Exacting routines, measured moments, these are what I need to keep control, to keep sane, to resist the onslaught of temptation all around me. I cannot indulge in whims if I am to succeed in overcoming the beast inside of me. It is not a question of desire. Avoidance of as much contact as possible is merely one of the ways I manage my condition and maintain control."

Sylvie's voice rises heatedly. "That's downright bullocks! You managed quite well touching me two days ago. I'm not sure about the control bit, but I _am_ still alive. You say you're frightened of reverting to someone that is selfish, incapable of friendship and love, that is hell bent on destruction and death, but I have seen nothing but politeness and kindness from you. You say you are scared of hurting me, but we have been seeing each other for quite some time now and you've yet to attack me and rip my throat out. The other night you weren't even in full control of your faculties and yet you let me talk you out of attacking someone you consider an enemy. You are a good man and you deserve more than locking yourself away."

"Sylvie, I am many things, but I am not a good man."

"The man I know is good. The man I know wouldn't hurt me. The man I know was gentle with me when we kissed -"

"Yes that was a terrible faux pas and I shouldn't have taken advantage of your innocence in that manner."

"As I recall I kissed you first, so you have nothing to worry about taking advantage. Did you think the kiss was terrible? Because as first kisses go, I'd say it was just about perfect."

Hal raises his eyebrows. "I'm sorry, did you say first?"

"Yes I did. Why such an incredulous look? I** am** a lady and you just said you were taking advantage of my innocence. Or do you think so lowly of me? I'm beginning to wonder what sort of women you've had as friends in the past Hal."

Hal sighs in frustration. How can she turn his words around in circles back to the subject he's trying to avoid. He decides to steer the conversation to less precarious topics. "Sylvie, it has occurred to me that you never told me what this 'decision' of yours was."

"Oh, yes,_ that_." Sylvie turns away from him to hide her somewhat guilty smile. She'd almost forgotten the silly test she had devised for him. But it would work just as well, if not better now. Turning back with a straight face she says, "Hal, I've made the decision to become a nun, to join a convent. "

Hal chokes out a laugh. "A nun? _You_? But you would be wasted as a nun!"

"Oh, wasted? Well I seem to be wasted right now. I can't even get a man to simply dance with me. I shall die unmarried, unwanted. At least as a nun my life could have purpose. "

Hal winces at his hasty words. "What I meant to say is your... exuberance... would be wasted."

"Well I'm sure certain persons would be happy to see some of my "exuberance" tamed a bit."

"Sylvie, stop being impetuous. We both know you would be miserable in a convent."

"Well I am not exactly unmiserable now."

"Sylvie that isn't exactly a word."

Sylvie narrows her eyes getting closer to him, bringing them back to the argument she wants to make. "Hal, when you look at me, what do you think of? Is your first thought, 'look at those juicy veins'? While we are conversing are you ignoring my words, hearing only my heartbeat? When we sit to eat are you only thinking 'I wonder how her blood tastes'? Do you see me as_ food_?! Or do you see me for myself, as a person, a friend?"

Hal admits, "Of course I don't just see you as -" He winces at her choice of words, though not long ago it is precisely how he would have viewed her, "- a comestible. I value the times we have spent together, your friendship. And that is exactly what I wish to preserve."

"Best not forget Hal that I'm human and unlike you, I won't preserve forever."

Hal huffs in his Hal-like way. "Still, it's best to maintain a distance. Any relationship with you can only end with your heart being broken or worse with your death. The allure of the blood is always there." He turns away to gather up the picnic, dismissing the subject.

Sylvie is tired of forever skirting the issue. Looking off towards the water, she decides to take matters into her own hands.

Hal busies himself with packing everything back into the basket, trying not to think too much about their conversation. He hadn't been entirely truthful with her. Remembering their kiss brought on thoughts beyond friendship. But every human he'd ever been with in that sense had been dead long before morning arrived. Hell, very few humans he'd encountered ever lived long at all. As he finishes the tidying, he glances up in time to see something that knocks all thought out of his mind.

Sylvie is sitting on the ground with her skirts up around her knees. She'd removed her shoes and one stocking and was just going for the garter to unclasp the other one when she heard his astonished voice.

"Sylvie, what on earth are you _doing_?" His voice cracks.

She looks up at him as she continues reaching under the light skirt and petticoat to pull down on the edge of her stocking, revealing part of her thighs. "I've decided that since you will not dance with me I shall go for a swim instead. I am eager to engage in some sort of rigorous exercise."

Hal's eyes widen as they wander up her shapely legs before he can rip his stare away. "Sylvie, this is highly improper."

"Oh I've swum here many a time." She says cheekily.

"You know perfectly well I mean your state of undress."

Sylvie stands and reaches back to undo her buttons. "Well I can't very well swim in all this. I'm liable to sink and I have some serious doubts if you would come rescue me considering your aversion to touching me when you are not inebriated. Besides, you've already said you think I'm too wanton for a convent. I may as well prove you right."

Hal turns back to retort but is caught off guard as he sees her bodice is loose and she's reaching to slide the shoulder of her dress off.

"Sylvie **stop**!"

She takes in his distressed, scandalized look and she supposes she should feel scandalized herself, but instead is gratified to see that he isn't looking away. "Well Hal, I shall make you a deal. I will consider turning back from the swim if you'll dance with me after all. Which will it be?"

Hal gives her a pained look before closing his eyes with a prolonged sigh. He could just leave, could disappear from her life altogether. _Why is it so hard to decide on that path?_ Making up his mind with a nod, he opens his eyes and says through clenched teeth, "Will you please redress first?"

Smiling in triumph Sylvie says innocently, "Hal would you help me with the buttons? It is terribly difficult to undo them and near impossible to button them up."

She turns for him and with some trepidation he approaches her. He concentrates on his trembling fingers grasping each button individually rather than look at the thin fabric of her undergarments and the porcelain skin of her neck.

Sylvie can barely feel his fingers as they slowly hook the two halves of her dress back together, but the thought of it fills her with nervous excitement. When she no longer feels the gentle tugs she turns to share a questioning look with him. He awkwardly extends his hands and she grasps them gently, curbing her enthusiasm. She starts humming a tune and begins the steps of one of her favorite lively reels. They start slow though it is obvious Hal _does_ know how to dance. They twirl in a circle, clap, come together, step apart, twirl around and continue in a simple variation of the complicated dance. When she adds some foot work which he matches lithely, Sylvie laughs in delight and is rewarded with a smirk. Elated, her humming is punctuated by giggles as they go through the steps faster and faster, twirling until she is breathless.

As he dances something in Hal thaws and he feels a barrier coming down. It feels good to let go of the tightness in his muscles, to shake free of the tension and enjoy the moment, something he doesn't permit himself often. Watching her enjoyment, listening to her musical laughter warms him, fills him with pleasure and hope. They twirl faster and faster until she can barely keep her tune and he can't help but smile at her abandon. When she finally loses her balance, knocking him down and collapsing on top of him, his first thought is to pull away, tensing for the proximity. But she continues to laugh, a feeling that reverberates through him, and he is gratified to feel he has control over the thirst. He can't help a laugh of his own. He feels her body against him, warm, inviting and he wants to give in.

Sylvie looks down at him, happy to see him laughing. She puts her hand on his face, marveling at actually touching him. She rubs her palm on his whiskery cheek, lets her finger trail across his lower lip, biting her own in restraint at pushing him too far. When she has her breath back she looks directly into his lovely eyes and says gently. "Let's be happy together Hal. Let me help you. Let me set you free of your cage."

He'd destroyed and killed everyone he had ever cared for, but this feels different. He feels a friendship, a love, unlike any he'd felt for any human or even vampire before. He doesn't want to leave her, he doesn't want to give up on the possibility of living a normal human life with her. Perhaps she is right. Perhaps _this time_, with her, he can finally win.

* * *

The scene of Hal and Sylvie dancing, and Hal admitting to himself that he's fallen in love with her, was inspired by Peter Gabriel's version of the song "My Body is a Cage". My absolute favorite fan made Hal video is set to it and if you haven't seen it you should. It's on YT titled: hal yorke | my body is a cage. The song is cut off at a certain point in that video, but if you listen to the end of the whole song - that's where my story title comes from.

Also, in my head canon, Wicked Game by Chris Isaac is Sylvie and Hal's song. ;)

I am trying to stick with period correct details in this story. Music and dancing were primary forms of entertainment during the Regency Period. Sheet music was expensive, often loaned out to be copied in notebooks, and one of the signs of wealth was your collection. Also, the popular music at this point in the story was largely folk songs and the dance was English or Scottish Country dancing, with lively, elaborate steps usually involving large groups that interweave together. The Waltz that many people associate with the period was introduced a little later.


	5. Ch 5: This World Will Break Your Heart

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Incredibly thankful beyond words for the world that Toby Whithouse has created and for the character of Hal that Damien Molony has brought to life. All mistakes are my own.

I really miss Being Human. Re-watches and writing this story have helped fill the void but there's still sadness in me that the show was not commissioned at least one more series.

Thanks go to Saemay and TangentiallyTJ for proofing this chapter. TJ has a wonderful fic she'll be unveiling sometime soon. :)

Hal and Sylvie woke me up at 6 am one morning a few weeks ago with these events. They made me do it.

* * *

**Ch. 5 This world will break you heart**

"I do," Hal says uncertainly, his voice cracking. He looks around at the group, feeling overwhelmed.

Hal wishes he were anywhere else at this very moment. Even filthy, starving and raving in that monastery would be preferable. Had he known what was waiting for him he wouldn't have committed to this farce.

It had all started in such a positive light.

* * *

After their "dance" he feels a relief, no longer holding on to one of his conflicts. As Sylvie lays on him, offering herself, he feels her determination and optimism infect him with a thread of hope. He even allows himself to cup her jaw and pull her down for a gentle kiss. It is soft, sweet, so unlike memories he has of previous women. He pulls back wanting to savor it, holding their faces together, nuzzling his nose tenderly against hers. He opens his eyes to her deep brown ones full of innocence, trust, desire. He shifts her off of him, to stave off any further improprieties, and she leaps up twirling and skipping about in a most unladylike fashion until he begs her to stop. He tells her in a tone that brooks no argument that he most certainly does not skip. However, he offers her his arm if she agrees to walk sedately.

He escorts her home with a promise to see her again at the earliest opportunity. Not even the letter from London waiting at home affects his elated attitude. He gives it a perfunctory read then puts it away with the others, unconcerned. Jacob is an idiot, prone to cock ups. Hal had been surprised Jacob even reached the level of Old One at all. His ineptitude at leadership and lack of protocol had been the reason Hal was called in to take over in Spain; to deliver a message about what was expected. He'd been quite effective at it.

Hal thrusts away those thoughts as he goes into his library, content to let go of the past and think of the future, for once. He has a poem to write.

The following morning an invitation is delivered for a weekend affair, thrown by Lord and Lady Arundel, in his honor. He snickers at that, then spends a good 300 press-ups worrying about it. In conclusion he decides to flex this new-found buoyancy and makes arrangements to attend. How bad can it be?

* * *

Sod's Law! Fate is sick. And Evil.

When he sees the number of people invited for the entire weekend, his thumb involuntarily begins to tap a slow path back and forth across his fingers.

When he is "introduced" to the werewolf, the rhythm of his fingers increases.

When the hunting accident happens, he excuses himself, concentrating on counting the horse's hooves all the way back to the manor.

When a guest jokingly makes references to Hal having womanly vapors, he resists the urge to to grab the man by the throat, and start him off counting backwards from ten.

When the werewolf makes his third veiled taunt, he begins reciting Gulliver's Travels in his head.

When the group of women surround him, he averts his eyes from their necks, concentrating very hard not to think about his past conquests.

When the main course of dinner is presented, barely seared rare beef swimming in a pool of blood, he politely refuses with a mutter about his constitution and sits holding his breath, his fingers in his lap almost a blur.

When the meal is over he excuses himself, citing fatigue, and runs to 'their pond' where he grabs handfuls of pebbles from the shoreline and busies himself to gain some sanity.

Later he sneaks into the house to find Sylvie waiting for him in the hallway near his room.

She apologizes for not having seen him most of the day and asks about his well being. He lies, saying he is fine, just gone out for fresh air. She looks unconvinced so he gives her the poem he'd written. She insists he recite it himself and then leaps to hug him. It is awkward as he's been on edge all day, and he pulls away citing fatigue once more. She doesn't push him.

Three hundred press-ups, two hundred situps for good measure, an hour reading and one folded paper wolf thrown in the crackling fire later, Hal seeks his bed, only to wake gasping a short while later from dreams of blood. A particularly vivid dream of following a brown-haired, brown-eyed girl down an alley, using his charms to make her complicit, driving into her then sinking his fangs into her quivering flesh, letting the arousal-spiked blood flow deliciously down his throat... STOP!

Trembling, Hal leaps to the floor and begins his night anew. 1... 2... 3...

* * *

Sylvie is up early, not having slept well, restless with worry. Her parents had eschewed social customs and given her much leeway in what they saw as an odd but favorable courtship. However with their friends - members of high society - in attendance, they insisted on proper behaviour and etiquette. The men largely spent the day in gentlemanly pursuits, while the women kept to their group. Unchaperoned encounters were prohibited. Add to this her duties as the daughter of the host, placed in charge of ensuring everything went as planned, and as a result Sylvie had only seen Hal a few minutes at a time throughout the day. He hadn't looked well, appearing paler than normal, with awkward movements and a clenched jaw. She'd observed him licking his lips and his fingers surreptitiously in motion, compulsions she'd seen diminish over their time together.

At dinner she had been called away to answer a question in the kitchens, returning to find him gone. After a fruitless search of the house she had paced the hallway, propriety be damned, until he arrived a couple hours later. She wasn't convinced with his placating words, but his gift had shot her through with such happiness that she gave in when he excused himself to retire. Sleep would definitely do him good.

Now she sits at the pianoforte quietly playing, awaiting to see him. Fortuitously he comes down shortly, ahead of any other guest. He looks as handsome and presentable as usual, but there is a tired and tense air about him, his eyes red-rimmed. She stops playing "Hal -" she begins, but he hushes her immediately.

"No, please don't stop. Your playing is quite... restorative."

She stares at him, giving him a timid smile, but he continues to give her a wooden look. He walks over to the nearest settee and sits expectantly.

She plays a selection of the most soothing pieces Hal had mentioned to her on previous occasions, while keeping watch on him. He sits ramrod straight and still, staring off distractedly, his hands gripping his knees. As she plays she wills his hands to loosen their white-knuckle grip. On the third tune she believes she sees a slight improvement, his shoulders easing a fraction. She plays a fourth before deciding to approach him, lest she lose the opportunity when others come down. She sits next to him, touching his arm lightly, and shaken from his thoughts he turns his head to look at her.

"Hal", she says quietly, "This weekend is not turning out as I expected. If you need to leave, I will make excuses for you." She takes his right hand in both of hers.

Hal focuses on their hands, noting that it is actually a comfort to have them together. She really does make him feel stronger. He looks up at her and answers just as subdued, "No. Thank you. It's just for one more day. I believe your lovely playing has given me the respite I needed." It is his turn to give her a timid smile.

As they hear someone coming down the stairs they let go and once again Sylvie sits to play another song.

Hal chants to himself. _I can do this. I can do this. I can do this._

* * *

"I do," Hal says uncertainly, his voice cracking. He looks around at the group, feeling overwhelmed.

At the end of another long day he stands taught as a lute string, tapping out a whirling rhythm on his fingertips, his hands hidden behind his back. The smell of wolf and blood, the reverberations of shotgun blasts and heartbeats, the whine of a dozen voices all circling around him, have made it hard to think or to breath. He's barely had a moment's quiet. He's been forced to endure the dark looks and veiled quips from the hound and to evade questions from Sylvie's parents. He's been enraged by the incompetence of the men and the incessant prattle of the women. Still he manages to maintain his mask of civility for the unsuspecting humans.

It is after dinner and Sylvie's mother is once again fawning over the werewolf. Hal has to commend the Spaniard, he's come far since the days in the dog fights. The young man he remembered hadn't been much more than a street ruffian. This man is confident, amiable, enthralling the women with flourishing bows and foreign words. One of the women had even suggested to her friends that he was a pirate. Hal had rolled his eyes at their titters and sighs. Yet it wasn't so long ago he had been enthralling women with his charm and wit, and a small part of him holds some jealousy over the other man's easy manner.

"Marvelous Lord Yorke!" Lady Arundel exclaims to his reluctant admittance. "I daresay Spanish is not a common knowledge in these parts. It is wonderful that you can speak it, to have something you share with our dear Mr. De La Villa."

Both men bristle at her comment.

She continues obliviously, "Tell me Lord Yorke, were you able to attend those bullfights I have heard about during your time in Spain? And what about the fabled 'Running of the Bulls'. It sounds ghastly and brutish."

Hal huffs a snicker. "I'm afraid I was rather busy with my enterprise at the time to catch either of those sports."_ They would have been enjoyable but best to keep vampires away from public bloodbaths._ "My companions and I however found **ample** amusement with some of Spain's_ other_ entertainments." He gives the hound a look.

The werewolf narrows his eyes at him.

"Would you honor us with a demonstration of your Spanish skills? I have acquired an interest in the language and would love to hear it spoken," she insists.

Hal sighs, giving her an obliging nod, turns to the werewolf and says the first thing that pops in his head,_ "Shall I tell them about the first man you killed in the dog fights? As I recall you tore all his limbs apart then ate them. I'm sure she'd love to hear about that."_ He ends with a slight smirk.

Federico retorts,_ "I would be happy to tell her of the two werewolves you had drained one night. How you tied that vampire over the tub of their blood and slowly lowered him down, letting the blood etch away his body to see how long it would take before he actually died."_ He lifts his eyebrows challenging.

They turn back to Lady Arundel's expectant face. "Well that was quite a mouthful. What did you converse about?"

With a straight face Hal says, "I was recounting my pleasure at having been able to take in much of the local entertainment. The people of Madrid are quite colorful and _passionate_ at everything they do."

Federico counters, "And I was relating_ exactly_ how my people feel about having foreigners with such a _variety_ in tastes."

The ignorant woman smiles. "Oh lovely, I would so desire to visit and experience some of the local customs. It does get dreadful here with the same old concerts and operas. I would enjoy something more lively."

With a tight grin Hal turns back to the hound, _"Perhaps I should recount your fourth fight, hmm? Very impressive, taking on two opponents. You bashed their heads together spewing brain matter. The onlookers thought that lively, not something frequently seen."_

Federico says with barely controlled contempt,_ "Should I mention the girl tied up in one of the cells? I heard her crying and talking to herself every day, and when you went down I heard what you did to her. To this day I don't know what finally broke her, the mental or physical torments you 'entertained' yourself with."_

Hal blanches with the memory, swallowing back the bile, holding back the wetness in his eyes, suppressing the conflicting emotions. He can feel_ him_ prowling, wanting to taunt the wolf more, wanting to wipe the inane grins off the humans, wanting to vent the frustrations of the last two days in a wash of blood. He looks at Sylvie for the first time since the exchange began. With effort he says shakily, "Would you please excuse me for a moment," and runs away once more...

* * *

Sylvie moves to follow but is prevented by her father's "Give the man some space." Sylvie looks over at Federico, imploring him with her eyes to find out what was said. The man looks furious, but after a few moments starts looking a bit guilty. _This can't be good._ Desperately, she spills wine on herself, exclaims that she must go change, then jumps up, leaving before anyone can stop her. However she barely makes it down the hall to the stairs before Federico's lowered voice stops her.

"It would be better Señorita if you do not go after him right now. He is very dangerous."

She rounds on him, her hushed tones carrying her anger, "What did you say to him?"

The werewolf replies, "I only reminded him of some of his past actions."

"Why would you do that? Can't you see the state he's in, trying to cope? Do you _want_ him to lose his control?"

"He will show his true self at some point. Better while I am here."

"Where he can slaughter two dozen innocent people? And yet he didn't. Instead he** ran away**. You do not know him at all."

"And neither do you Señorita. You want to know what I reminded him of before he _ran away_? There was a girl -"

Sylvie stops him, saying quietly, "I suspect there have been many girls." She takes a deep breath before continuing firmly, "However that doesn't change my feelings for him one jot. I am concerned with the man he is today, not with his past, and I hope that you'll see him for what he is now, a good man, and let the past go. I am going to find Hal, to make certain he is... himself. Nothing you say will change my mind."

She runs to his room and knocks but there is no answer. When she opens the door, she finds the room empty. Thinking of his actions the night before she searches the grounds outside then runs all the way down to the pond. What confronts her is a curious sight; rows upon rows of pebbles, small ones at one end and large ones at the other. _Oh Hal._ They are all dry; he must have done this last night. Her heart already thundering in her chest, she runs to the coach house. His coach and servant are still in attendance. Only then does she search throughout the house, careful to avoid her parents and guests. When she cannot find him in the public areas she goes upstairs to search the private rooms, starting with her own.

She opens the door and lets out a sigh of relief as she sees him, turned away from her, sitting rigidly on her bed. Closing the door behind her she begins to babble in her relief. "Hal, dear God, I have been searching all over for you! Have you been here this whole time? Are you alright, you were as pale as a ghost when you left. Wait, are ghosts actually pale? Well, you were white as a sheet, no small feat considering -"

She cuts off as she gets closer and rounds the bed, a horrific sight greeting her: Hal is staring off into nothingness, covered in blood; drying lines of it coming from his parted lips, splattered on his coat and shirt, a pool of it staining his lap. Her eyes travel down and see what is at his feet - she falls to her knees. Duckie, her dog, her dear friend for almost nine years, her last link to her brother. Oddly her first thought is _I didn't know a dog his size would have so much blood_, before she lets out a muffled scream of anguish. She picks up her dog and rocks him as the tears pour out. She looks up at Hal, who appears catatonic, and pushes away her grief, gently placing her dog to the side as she moves forward to deal with the bloody vampire.

"Hal," she croaks. He doesn't respond. "Hal," she manages a little louder but still no response. She dares to touch him, grabbing that hand she'd held comfortingly just that morning. He still does not move, does not blink. Tentatively, she cups his cheek and still no response. There is blood all over him; he looks so unlike the pristine, meticulous Hal she's accustomed to._ Is this how he is when he's bad?_ Then, _Oh._ She looks to see if his fangs are out. They aren't. _That's a good sign._

She decides on a course of action. Wiping the blood off her hands on the rug, she throws on her pelisse to hide her now bloody dress and goes downstairs to ask for water to be heated. Then she goes in search of Federico.

She finds him with the men smoking in the library. She peeks in the doorway, and once he notices her she waves at him to come out.

"Did you find him?" he begins without preamble, on top of her "I need your help."

His eyes narrow. "What has happened? I smell blood on you."

She shakes her head, not trusting herself to speak about it, and signals him to follow up to her bedroom. She lets him in and leads him to Hal, who is still as she left him.

Federico looks around silently, then gives her a pitying look. He pulls out his stake. "I can take care of him right now."

"NO! That's not the type of help I'm asking for. I need you to help me dispose of this mess. I need you to... to..." She takes a deep breath and starts again, "I need you to take my dog and bury him, if you wouldn't mind. Take him to the pond down the lane. Please bury him under one of the trees." She stubbornly wipes away at the tears._ Take care of this first._

"Are you sure about this Señorita? He has killed. He **will** kill again and I do not think it will be an animal next time."

"Yes I am sure. Just do this,** please**? I can take care of him and most of this mess, but my dog- " she stops, wiping tears again.

Federico gives in. "I will do this for you, but you deserve better than this."

She ignores that comment. "I need to make sure no one will come in here. Have Gemma tell my mother that she came looking for me, that I'm suffering from womanly problems and retired early. Tell my father you came up to speak with Hal and he has retired for the night."

"What will you do with him?"

"I'm going to clean him up and wait for him to wake up from this state."

"He might wake up, kill you, and go on a rampage."

"Feel welcome to wait outside. If he comes out covered in blood again then I suppose you'll have your wish," she says flippantly, hiding her fears.

Federico nods and asks for something to wrap her dog in. She tells him to use the rug since it would be difficult to have it clean by morning. Before he wraps him up, she strokes her dog tenderly one last time, saying goodbye.

After he leaves she attempts to wake Hal once more, unsuccessfully. She takes her pitcher from the washstand and sneaks down for the hot water and some linens.

Once she's back inside she places everything on the floor, removing her overcoat and kneeling down in front of Hal. She takes his hands and soaks them one at a time in her washbowl, drying them with care. Then she begins undressing him. She slides off his open coat, folding it on the floor as a platform for the other bloody garments. She removes his soaked cravat, thankful that Hal's tastes do not lean toward the more complicated knots. Next she removes his waistcoat, the blood-slick buttons slowing down her shaky fingers.

Pouring water directly on a towel she begins to wipe the blood off the left side of his face, holding the steamy cloth against his skin to soften the dry spots then gently wiping from his cheek to chin. Moving to his right she pauses, touching the scar there, wondering for the hundredth time how he acquired it, what significance it had in his human life. Wringing the cloth clean she moves to his parted lips, so plump, so red, working to get the blood from the corners, squeezing fresh water from a second cloth to sluice the blood left in his mouth. Once she's satisfied she removes his collared shirt with some difficulty, having to lift his heavy muscular arms one at a time and maneuver the stiff fabric up over his head carefully. She wipes the drying demarcating line of blood from his neck, noting the lack of palpitations, watching until she sees one pulse... then a second... a third.

She realizes she's been transfixed for a while, shakes herself, drying fresh tears from her cheeks and chin, and re-commences her ministrations. She removes his shoes and stockings, then moves on to his trousers. She pauses to ascertain he is still in his trance-like state, then grabs the flap at his waist, unbuttoning slowly, her fingers still shaky. She can't help her blush. Standing, she pushes his chest, catching his shoulders as she eases his head down onto the mattress. She then lifts his feet so that he is laying in a supine position. Placing her hands at his hips, suppressing inappropriate thoughts, she works his trousers off, leaving him in short drawers. Thankfully only a tiny bit of blood seeped through his trousers. It would have to do. She leans over him with the clean cloth to wipe any more remnants of his bloody relapse, then leaves the room to dispose of the evidence.

Returning, she removes her pelisse and bloody dress, stashing them in the wardrobe. Only in her chemise and stays, she feels self conscious but gets in the bed beside him, pulling him to her, his back against her stomach, his head nestled against her chest. She hugs his shoulders and starts rocking him gently, humming a soft tune. hmmm... hmmm... hmmmmmm... hmmm... hmmm... rocking gently. She quietly weeps as she remembers another boy she loved, doing the same for him, night after night. hmmm... hmmm... hmmmmmm... hmmm... hmmm...

She must have dozed after a while, for she comes to with a start as she feels the bed shaking. He'd rolled forward from her and is curled up, his hands gripping the mattress, his body convulsing. His muscles are rippling with contracted tension, his body is covered in a sheen of sweat, his breath is shaking with effort. Afraid touching him might trigger something worse, she curls up beside him. There is no indication that it will end soon and she is at a loss, unsure of what to do. The uncertainty and helplessness tip her over the edge and she gives into her grief, letting his convulsions carry through her as she is wracked with sobs. She cries for the dog she will miss, for the boy she lost, for the tortured man she wants. And she cries for the girl she was, the girl with the foolish heart that insisted on loving a man who isn't a man, that insisted on dreaming an impossible dream.

Time has no meaning but eventually his tremors stop and she hears a hitched "I am so sorry.", the tears thick in his voice. Impossibly, she cries again. This time it is her spasms of anguish that shake the bed until her body is drained of tears, of adrenaline, of all emotion, and she succumbs to sleep.

When she wakes, the late afternoon light illuminating the rumpled bed, he is gone.


	6. Chapter 6: Dreamer

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Incredibly thankful beyond words for the world that Toby Whithouse has created and for the character of Hal that Damien Molony has brought to life. All mistakes are my own.**

**This chapter brought to you from my beta Saemay's house. I came to meet her in person/visit for the weekend! It's been major awesomeness!**

**Title and inspiration for this chapter from the song "Dreamer" by Uh Huh Her**

* * *

**Ch. 6 Dreamer**

In a panic, Sylvie throws on a dress and hurries to check Hal's room. His room is empty, devoid of any sign there had been an occupant that weekend. _If Federico decided he had sufficient cause he might have -_ no, she pushes that thought away.

Running downstairs she asks after both men. Hal had departed early that morning, leaving a polite note. She recognizes his precise script but has to read it over three times before feeling relief that in fact he _had_ left alive and well, metaphorically. The other man and his wife departed more recently, her parents having seen them off. It feels surreal to see how unconcerned everyone in the room is. She escapes the house and runs down the lane to the water.

This used to be a happy, favourite spot for her. Arriving now it feels haunted with conflicting memories. The arranged pebbles stand out unnaturally upon the shoreline, drawing her gaze as she approaches a small mound at the base of a tree with a freshly carved cross on it's trunk. She sits down facing the freshly turned dirt, her hand patting the ground in soothing circles as she thinks.

Her dog, her grandmother, and her brother are all dead. She loves her parents, but they'd been distant after her brother's death. Had it not been for her grandmother taking her away, patiently nurturing, she probably would have let herself die, to join her twin. But she hadn't given up on life; instead she had started dreaming of a future filled with happiness - the silly dreams young girls have of falling in love with a man who will sweep them off their feet and take them away to live a happily ever after.

And then she'd met _him_. She thinks about the night she first saw Hal. Even as young as she had been, she'd been drawn to him. How innocent and haunted his eyes had looked as he sat strapped in that chair, how utterly mesmerizing he'd become for those few moments, giving her a glimpse into a hidden world she was instantly intrigued with. Many a night she'd lain remembering, wondering, dreaming. Then to see him again after such a long time... His eyes still have that innocent and haunted look, the same eyes in that unchanging face.

She thinks of Hal's actions the previous night; cleaning up the aftermath, holding him, his tremors, her sorrow, his whispered remorse-filled words. It's all a dizzying combination. Hal is like a broken puzzle, a collection of seemingly random fragments. If you apply yourself, patiently matching them up, piece by piece, when enough of them are together you start seeing the whole emerge. She knows intuitively she will never truly see the whole Hal Yorke, but she feels a desire, a craving, to see how many pieces she can decipher, how much of him _she_ can have. Her heart has really left her no choice.

With her mind made up, she goes inside, sends a servant with a note to Hal's home and has a bath drawn. As she washes away the last of the blood and tears clinging to her from the night before she feels her conviction strengthen.

By the time she comes down to the evening meal her servant is back with a letter. She opens it, fearful of what she'll find. It could hardly be any worse - the note is not in Hal's hand. Instead she reads that Hal had only stopped a couple hours that morning before departing to London. London represented everything Hal was running away from. _If he was going there..._ She knows she needs to stop him.

Joining her parents at their evening meal, she explains away her missing dog and Hal's peculiar behaviour and invents an alibi for departing the next day. As she expects, her parents acquiesce with little coaxing. She dispatches her servant with another letter, this time to the werewolf and his wife.

* * *

The next morning finds her early at their home. Gemma welcomes her warmly, but Federico get's right to the point, asking what has happened. Sylvie tells them Hal had gone to London the day before, and confides her fears that he might have gone to join the vampires there.

"What gives you that idea?" Gemma asks, but Federico is not surprised. He says simply, "It was only a matter of time. It's in his nature."

"No!" Sylvie is adamant. "That's not what he truly wants. He made a comment to me once about becoming bad and ending the pain. I think he's running back to something comforting, something easier, but I know in his heart he wants to stay good. Last night was - difficult - for him. He reached a point where he could no longer cope and had to release the pent up frustration somehow. But he had the presence of mind to not hurt any people, to not hurt me. What he did - logically I know I should hate him or feel disgusted. I should want to forget him. But I can't. You didn't see him throughout the night, you didn't hear how remorseful he was. I care for him too much to give up on him. I know you have your prejudices, and I understand them. But please, will you help me bring him back, get him safe?"

The Spaniard begins pacing before speaking. "The man I knew then, Lord Harry, he was sadistic, cruel, heartless. In just the one year I was chained up he killed and had killed dozens of people. Worse, he played games with them, hurt them, broke them until they welcomed death. He does not deserve to taint the world with his presence any longer... " He stops his pacing and faces Sylvie with a resigned sigh. "The man I've seen now, Hal, he is not the same man. I baited him and he resisted. Blood was spilled and he resisted. I saw what he did with the rocks. I believe you are right, he _is_ trying to be a good man." He looks lovingly at his wife then back at Sylvie, "I have done things I am not proud of, and I live my life trying to atone for those things. If you think he can succeed, I will help you give him the chance."

* * *

When they arrive in the city hours later they go directly to Hal's London house, only to be told that he had never come there. His coachman had dropped him off at a warehouse and had been instructed to go to the house, but had not been told anything further.

Federico knows the place. His contacts in the werewolf underground had long suspected it to be the vampire headquarters. They park across the street from the building. Seeing a few guards milling about, they sit waiting to confirm that Hal is indeed there. Sylvie wishes she could just storm in, feeling that each second that passes Hal is pulling further away from her, but she isn't stupid. After a lengthy wait they are finally rewarded as a coach pulls up. The warehouse door opens and she sees him come out, accompanied by two men. She recognizes the man from the the ball almost a year ago, but the other man is a stranger. Blond haired with grey-blue eyes and a pleasant enough face, he looks perhaps ten years older than Hal, though she has no way of knowing his true age. Her friend tells her the blond man is Jacob, current leader of the vampires in London.

Hal looks... unwell. Dressed as meticulously as ever in his blue tailcoat, his top hat, light breeches and hessian boots, he looks the part of a successful, confident man. But even from the distance she can see his skin looks clammy, he's shaky, and his eyes are red-rimmed. Federico points this out as a good sign. If Hal had fed recently he would look much better.

Hal gets into the coach alone and they follow. It is leading away from the location of Hal's home, and Federico suspects Hal is going to a hotel and gentleman's club owned by the vampires. With a sinking feeling Sylvie realizes her chance to reach him is slim. As the two coaches pull up to the vampire establishment, Sylvie, her heart hammering with trepidation, loses no time in wrenching the door open and jumping down to intercept Hal.

As Hal turns away from his coach he sees her running towards him, his eyes growing wide. "Sylvie, what are you doing here?" He exclaims, visibly agitated.

She stops a few feet away, breathing heavily. "I would ask the same of you Hal. Why are you here in London?"

He glances over at the vampires at the entrance, relieved they seem occupied with another patron, then approaches her with slow steps. Despite looking tired in her rumpled dark grey traveling dress, with wild strands of her hair escaping her chignon, her flushed cheeks and bright eyes still draw his attention. He says quietly, "Sylvie, you must leave. It isn't safe for you here."

She holds her ground. "I will not leave until I've had a proper talk with you Hal. There are some things I need to say, some things you need to know. We can do this right here or somewhere a bit more private?"

Hal huffs impatiently. She is wearing her stubborn look. He looks around, then walks off to an alley two buildings over. As he passes her coach and he sees the werewolf inside he clenches his jaw.

The alley is strewn with debris, a pile of crates nearby, but empty of any people. He gestures her forward and then follows, keeping a few feet away. "Sylvie this is not the proper behaviour of a lady of your standing. Do your parents even know you are in London? And in the company of _that_ man?"

"My parents believe I am a guest of his wife's at their home, staying for some undetermined time. We rushed here as quickly as we could."

With sad eyes Hal says, "Sylvie... I'm sorry you had to see _that_ side of me. I didn't know... I didn't think there was any way to apologize. There aren't words... So I left. Leaving is the right thing to do."

She falters momentarily, all the thoughts she'd had, all the words she'd planned swirling around for attention. Finally she says simply, "I came to bring you home."

Hal looks at her incredulously. "**Home**? You can't be serious! I killed your dog for Chrissakes! You can't possibly be deluded any longer as to my nature."

"No. I am not deluded. I know who you are, what your are."

"Sylvie, you haven't seen the worst of me. What I did two nights ago, that is just a small glimpse of the monster I am. But it should be enough to dissuade you from having any more contact with me."

Sylvie says tenderly, "Hal, I've seen enough to know that you, the real you, did not _choose_ to do what you did. I've seen you _killing_ yourself to resist those urges. Deep down the real you _is_ a good man."

Heatedly Hal replies, "I think you fail to grasp the full extent of what I'm capable of. What I am, it _is _an elemental part of me, has been for more lifetimes than I have a right to have lived. Not one second of those lifetimes has the compulsion, the hunger, for blood ever ceased. The hunger is the length and breadth of me. The monster is always simmering just under the surface, threatening to drown me in the rage and violence and destruction that it craves. I try to suppress it, **to fight it,** but in time the inevitable happens, as you witnessed two nights ago. I have tried to live amongst humans, but I'm living a charade and I'm never ever _truly_ safe. The pain of what I might do at any moment is just too much. It is better I live with my own kind."

"Bullocks. I'm not convinced."

"Excuse me?" Hal says with a deep frown.

Sylvie approaches him so that she is almost touching him. He looks panicky as he steps back, pressing himself to the side of the building.

In challenging tone she says, "Convince me you aren't in control. Convince me you're a danger right now."

He retorts sardonically, "Shall I make you a list of all my kills, hmm? We'll be here... _awhile_."

"No, Hal, I do not ask about the people you killed 10, 50 or even 100 years ago. I want to know who you killed today."

"I haven't killed anyone today."

"Yesterday?"

He says flatly, "Well there was your dog..."

"What about 6 months ago?"

With a breath of frustration he tries to interject, "Sylvie -"

"What about 6 years ago? After you went clean? After your last long bout of being bad Hal. It must have taken you months in that chair to rid yourself of the effects of so many years on the blood. When you finally came out, did you go on a rampage?"

"No I didn't, but -"

"Wouldn't you say _that_ was one of the most volatile times? And yet you didn't succumb. You resisted. You found the strength the fight the monster. Coming to this weekend - you were faced with strenuous circumstances, yet you found ways to cope. You ran away from the humans -"

"**I killed your dog!**"

She ignores his interruption. "You didn't kill me although we were in the same room all night. You've even kept away from your servants, sending your coachman home safe."

Closing his eyes Hal lets out a sigh, "The temptation -"

"Yes the temptation is there. It will always be there and I cannot even begin to fathom what it feels like, what it takes for you to resist. But I think you are also using that as an excuse. I think the real impetus for your crisis of faith is that you are scared of feeling. You are scared of loving someone and having someone love you back, of entrusting your heart and having it broken. You've been living the life of an emotional eunuch, well of a eunuch in general, because you are frightened of hurting again. I know you hurt, but life is that way for all of us. It is the sum of the good times and the bad times and at any given moment we choose paths that _might_ lead to more pain. But what choice do we have? An existence without love - that is no existence at all!"

Hal looks down at her sadly. "Sylvie, you've built up this notion that just by choosing to be good I can suddenly become the happy human. I hate to break the illusion, but that simply isn't true. This is not the first time I've tried."

Sylvie takes on a pleading tone, "Perhaps it hasn't worked in the past because you did not have the right person to help you. You have coping mechanisms to suppress _those_ urges, but it is impossible to suppress everything. You also need positive outlets. That is what I can give you. We can go somewhere secluded to minimize temptations. We can build a peaceful, happy life together."

Hal snorts derisively, "You are such a naïve child. You have no idea what you are offering. You think you can play house with a monster, but that monster would tear your throat out in a heartbeat and discard you like rubbish. I have hurt and killed everyone that I've even remotely cared about before, there's no reason to believe this... venture... would end any differently." Suddenly he makes a cutting off motion in the air. "Jesus, why are we even still entertaining this conversation?!"

Sylvie paces away angrily. "No, you're right! Lets just get this over with!" She goes over to the pile of crates and comes back with a broken board. "You may as well just stake yourself right now! Here, I'll help you!" She levels the pointier end at his chest. "I will end your misery so that then maybe I have a chance to be out of mine."

Hal rolls his eyes. "Sylvie you're proclivity for hyperbole is... staggering."

"Why is it so hard to believe that I could have such strong feelings for you? That humans are capable of love so strong it transcends all else?"

"Because in 300 years I've seen_ quite_ the **opposite**. I've seen the worst of humanity, the degradation, cruelty and hate people are capable of. You have idealistic attitudes that I find... _envious_... but they are **misguided**. Wishing something to be true doesn't make it magically happen. Life simply does not work that way." Pausing he looks down at the piece of wood then back into her eyes, "But perhaps you are right. This should end now." Hal puts his hands over hers, steadying the makeshift stake, pushing it towards his heart.

They stand there staring at each other an interminable moment. Finally Sylvie opens her hands, letting the wood fall to the floor with a thud, all her bluster leaving her.

The wetness in her eyes spilling over she says emotionally, "I can't. Killing you would be like ripping my heart in two."

"Better metaphorically than literally."

"I went through losing part of me before. I don't think I could survive it again. I would rather set you free to join those other vampires, to revert to the demon you become, than to have you irrevocably gone forever. What kind of a person does that make me?"

Hal doesn't have an answer.

Sylvie looks at him standing there so clearly tortured, the wall she'd been chipping away at for months building itself up around him. She needs to reach him now before he leaves her. She walks away from him once more looking at the ground. Hal frowns as she picks up a shard of glass.

Hal says softly, "Sylvie, what are you doing?"

Looking directly into his eyes, Sylvie replies just as softly, "I'm going to prove a point."

As he sees her bring the glass to her palm Hal cries out, "**Noooo!**" He moves to stop her, but is too late. He halts himself short directly in front of her, suddenly hyper aware of everything. The rapid pounding of her heart he's been trying to ignore overpowers all other sounds. The smell hits him - salty, hinting of warmth and fullness. He sees the welling of the crimson line expanding, drops begin overflowing to fall in the space between them. His whole body trembles with the effort it takes to look away from the tempting droplets, his jaw clenches with the struggle it takes to hold back the fangs that want to push down, his eyes water with emotion as he tries to look back up to her eyes without his turning black.

As she sees Hal struggle, Sylvie is afraid she's gone too far, but she's committed now. She feels that somehow this is the right thing to do, to test him, to push him. She watches as he gasps in concentration, then his eyes come up to hers. His beautiful green flecked eyes now brimming with moisture meet hers and she breathes a sigh of relief. Ignoring her racing heart she asks calmly, "Do you want to hurt me now? Is that the feeling you have right at this moment?"

"I... no... I don't want to hurt you." He says with quiet desperation.

"You see. We can do this. I'm willing to take the chance. I'm willing to give **us** a chance. I have the right to make a choice for my life, and I chose you."

"Yes, your **life**. I want to preserve that. That is why I must leave. Now."

He turns away, but her words give him pause. "Hal! Just promise me one thing. Whether you stay good now on your own, or give in and become bad again for a while, come back to yourself. Don't ever stop fighting or give up the hope that one day you will win. Deep down inside, you are still capable of love and compassion. Deep down, you** are** still human."

Without turning he orders, "Stay here. I'll send the werewolf to pick you up," and he walks away.

* * *

She hates this house, the house her brother died in. She wonders if he's still here, if he's been here all this time and she's never felt his presence. It saddens her immensely to think that. _I'll have to ask... _well she really doesn't want to know anyway.

She sits on the ground in the garden trailing her fingers through the lavender, letting the scent soothe her, concentrating on not thinking, not feeling. She doesn't know how long she's been there when suddenly...

"Sylvie."

She looks up and there he stands, a pleading look on his face. "_**Please**_ help me. I don't want to be _that_ man."

With a warm grin she jumps up and almost hugs him. But she stops herself as she sees his eyes travel to her bandaged hand, his whole body shaking.

"Oh Hal, I was so afraid I'd lost you!" She tempers her enthusiasm with practicality. "How do we do this? Shall I take you to your house? Or do we need to go somewhere more remote? We'll leave now and run far away where we can keep you safe -"

"No Sylvie, we can't run away together. I do not want your virtue questioned."

"Hal, you know what others think doesn't concern me."

"But it concerns me." He approaches her tentatively. "You are an innocent, fragile creature - " He breaks off at her raised eyebrow, "Very well, not fragile. You are a confident, magnetic, willful woman, yet you possess a delicate nature nonetheless, and I want to be worthy of it. There's been enough debauchery in my past to last many lifetimes. I will do this properly."

"Then what will we do?"

His reluctance plain in his pinched lips and closed eyes he says, "I was hoping the dog - Mr. De La Villa - would be of assistance. If your parents are under the impression you are their guest, perhaps their home would be the best stage for my... recovery. Though I'd prefer you were not exposed to it at all, I do believe it would be a... comfort... to have you there." He pauses for a moment. "However, there might be some... unpleasant cleanups necessary. And I'll plead and threaten. I will need a firm hand. Once I am safe I will continue to need structure and discipline in order to maintain control."

"I do hope I won't have to be your child-nurse for too long."

He is pensive, "Animal blood is not quite the same as human blood, and I didn't ingest much. It varies but I do not think too long. It won't be as _extreme_ as you saw in the cellar. This is more a precaution." He continues with his instructive tone, "I will also need to stay secluded, away from as many people as possible, with activities to keep me focused, to help me stay in control."

With a mischievous grin she says, "I can certainly think of one secluded activity to keep you focused, though not sure if control is the right word -"

"Sylvie, this is no jesting matter."

Sylvie lets out a laugh, a sound carrying her relief that the uncertainties and trials of the last week have concluded in what she's fought for since she first met him. "I know Hal, it's just that... I feel so happy, I cannot help but tease you a bit. And admit it, that is one of the qualities you admire about me."

He looks at her straight-faced, but she detects a small twitch of his lips.

"I do believe we'll inject you with some my "idealistic attitudes" yet!"


	7. Chapter 7: Awkward

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Incredibly thankful beyond words for the world that Toby Whithouse has created and for the character of Hal that Damien Molony has brought to life. All mistakes are my own.**

******Thanks to TJ4ev and Saemay for proofing.**

**This warning might be obsolete, but changing to M rating. **

**This one is super long, and I was worried it was too sappy, but I haven't had any complaints. :) Enjoy!**

* * *

**Ch. 7 Awkward**

"If you say 'I'm sorry' one more time Hal, I shall slap you to the backside of nowhere." Sylvie says only half jokingly as she begins removing the straps that hold Hal down in the chair.

"You do possess _quite_ an arm." He frowns, "And what does that even mean? Will you please stop making up phrases?"

"Well, you weren't being very nice when you said those things about my mother, even if some of them are true. Besides, considering your state at the time I thought a good clout would knock some sense into you. And..." she stops unbuckling to give him a impudent look, "I can make up phrases as I please. You are not my tutor."

"Is this truly how you plan to help me stay sane? If so I was better off joining the vampires."

"I think you are doing very well, despite the torments I've devised for you." She gives him a mischievous grin. "It's all part of the plan. You are too busy fending off my teasing to think too much about... bad elements you shouldn't be thinking about."

He inadvertently glances at her décolletage and quickly looks away. The skin exposed above her bodice does tend to draw his eyes away from her neck. Torments indeed. She seems to have chosen some of her most revealing gowns to wear the last couple weeks. _Part of her plan? _

"Ahhh, Sylvie. I'm -" At her look he swallows the 'sorry' he'd been about to say and continues, "I wish to thank you for helping me through _this_." He makes an open-handed gesture to encompass his state. "There is no way I can take back the things you've been exposed to... the hallucinations... I'm not entirely sure what I said -"

Moving to the strap on his other leg she interrupts him, "Hal, I know you think me a naïve girl, but I'm strong enough for this. It's better I know some of the things you've been up to, however difficult it is to contemplate. Besides, you can no longer make the claim that I don't know 'the real you' and now I have ammunition if we ever get into a fight."

Hal makes an irked noise, shaking his head. Then he closes his eyes with embarrassment. "The, ahhh... incident. When I suggested... when I thought you were that... French girl..." His voice cracks as he trails off.

"Well, _that_." She blushes furiously. Pausing to look at his slender fingers as she unstraps his wrist doesn't help the situation. _Oh lord, what he said about fingers. _ "That was... educational. I did not know any of those things were done... and by the sounds of it, you frequented that...that _lady's_... establishment on more than one occasion... "

Mentally chastising himself Hal says, "I did not mean to offend your sensibilities."

Biting her lip in a gesture Hal suddenly finds very coquettish, she answers, "Offend is not the word I would use." She's still enthralled by his fingers as she releases his last binding. Then she looks up at him with a barely suppressed smile. "However, it _is_ good happenstance that our hosts ne parlent pas français."

Hal nods with an exhale, "Yes, I imagine that would have been... awkward."

As he stands she says dramatically, gesturing widely, "I set you free! Go forth into the world in peace!"

Hal snickers grimly, "That's not very likely. The last time I 'went forth' the streets in two countries ran with blood." At her raised eyebrow he says, "Sorry. No, I'm fine. I really do feel I have it under control."

Sylvie sighs, "Will you be fine without me? I do wish we didn't have to be apart."

"It is for the best. Normally women's... ah... well it isn't a problem for most of us. But I am.. a bit more... ah... sensitive... Besides, is it not tradition to have a time of sequestering before these things?"

Sylvie gives a little laugh at his discomfiture. "Hal, I don't think that's been a custom for at least one hundred years. You should try to keep up with the times more."

Hal looks up at the ceiling. Her infuriating goading is certainly something he wouldn't miss.

* * *

He is surprised at how much he'd missed her, teasing and all, but the day had finally arrived.

Standing in the garden of her father's estate with the 4 humans awaiting, Hal's thumbs march across his fingers behind his back as his mind wanders.

He supposes that when you've lived over 300 years, something like this is bound to happen at some point.

As a human he'd never given it much thought. Growing up in a brothel gave him a _singular_ perspective. Fornication was de régulière in his upbringing, not something he questioned. This had only intensified throughout most of his vampire existence as he had given into his carnal urges with complete relish. If he desired a woman, he simply took her, willing or not; very willing more often than not. However, with Sylvie he is experiencing something new. _This -_ this is something rooted deep in the pit of his belly, an ache for _more_, an ache that transcends his base desires. He is still bemused by the idea - he, Hal, former Lord Harry, scourge of England and Wales; known to have peasants flayed for looking at him funny; leaving a trail of seduced (and dead) women - had fallen in love.

Approaching her father had thankfully been a painless affair. The werewolf had come with him to be certain he didn't have a relapse. No sooner had Hal uttered the traditional "I have come to ask for your daughter's hand in marriage." had the other man sighed in relief saying, "About bloody time, my boy!" and they had entered a discussion about her dowry and obtaining a special license to marry within the fortnight.

Mercifully, weddings are handled in a civilized manner in these times. No barbaric rituals, no long drawn out feasts with large gatherings; an official paper procured and a simple ceremony with only her parents and the De La Villa couple as witnesses sufficed. Even their unusual request to forego some of the long, tedious ceremony was granted. The vicar seems to be wary of Sylvie. Hal is sure there is a story behind the man's nervous glances at her, the stammering manner whenever he is forced to address her.

Hal had spent the fortnight apart from Sylvie preparing himself mentally, yet at the sight of her walking towards him in the very gown she'd been wearing when destiny had thrust her back into his life, he feels a renewed flutter of nervous apprehension. He tries to appear calm, but by the amused look her father gives him, it's clear Hal is unsuccessful.

Sylvie gives him a timid smile, quite a change from her usual boisterous self, and they stand facing each other as the ceremony begins. Hal winces at an unbidden memory - the last time he'd attended a wedding he'd eaten half the guests. The irony of the situation is not lost on him - he hopes the Eastern belief of Karma does not exist, or at least does not come back to haunt him.

Soon the vicar turns to Hal with the timeless words:

"Henry Yorke,Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded Wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, till death do you part?"

Hal takes a steadying breath trying not thinking too hard about the implications of the last statement. He looks at Sylvie, feeling her strength and trust as she looks back. For once in his very long life he feels he is doing something right. "I will."

"Sylvie Élise Arundel,Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, till death do you part?"

Sylvie's smile widens as she declares, "I will!" eliciting the predictable guffaws from the men and sniffles from the women.

When prompted, they kneel down and Hal takes a ring from his pocket. It is a posey ring, as customary in the time he had been a human. With a small smile at the thought of her reaction when she discovers the hidden message, Hal slips the ring onto her fourth finger and says the requisite words with surprising conviction, "with this Ring I thee wed, with my Body I thee worship, and with all my worldly Goods I thee endow..."

Then before the clergyman can continue, Hal breaks tradition. He grabs both of Sylvie's hands in his and holding her gaze repeats the poem he'd written as a tribute to her:

Dear thoughts are in my mind  
And my soul soars enchanted,  
As I hear the sweet lark sing  
In the clear air of the day.

For a tender beaming smile  
To my hope has been granted,  
And tomorrow she shall hear  
All my fond heart would say.

I shall tell her all my love,  
All my soul's adoration,  
And I think she will hear  
And will not say me nay.

It is this that gives my soul  
All its joyous elation,  
As I hear the sweet lark sing  
In the clear air of the day.

This brings on more sniffles from the women, including the bride. Sylvie hardly hears any of the rest of the ceremony, just stares into Hal's eyes, letting her happy tears go unchecked. Hal's tears go unchecked as well.

* * *

After the celebratory breakfast, Federico takes Hal aside in the foyer. "Bueno, la Señorita got her way after all?" He says with a smirk.

Hal replies tersely, "It would appear so."

"Are you ready for this?" Hal is surprised the wolf's tone holds no sarcasm or animosity. During his stay in the chair they had come to an uneasy truce. Hal doubted werewolves and vampires could ever call themselves friends, but at the very least they could tolerate each other.

"Yes. No." Hal admits in a deflated tone.

The other man gives him a pitying look. Then he starts giving him marriage advice. "Here are a few things I've learned as a married man."

Hal's eyebrows shoot up. "You do realize I am several centuries older than you. I _have_ been with a... _considerable_ amount of women in that time."

"Yes but you've never been married to one. You'll find that this will be as different as dia y noche!" The Spaniard looks around to be certain they are still alone and begins, "If she says you forgot something, don't try to argue with her. Just apologize profusely."

Hal lifts his eyebrows. "That won't be a problem. I never forget anything."

"Oh, trust me, she will find something she never bothered to tell you and claim you forgot." He leans in, "It doesn't hurt to bring her a present in this situation." At Hal's uncomfortable look he leans away.

"If she asks you how she looks, dios mío, do not be tempted to point out even one stray hair out of place! If you slip, again, it helps to bring her a present."

Hal stares back blandly.

"Now this is an important one. If she says yes, she usually means no. If she says no -"

Hal interrupts, "She usually means yes? I _have_ encountered something similar in the past -"

The werewolf shakes his head. "No, she still means no."

Hal frowns. "But that's utter nonsense. What does she say when she means yes?"

"They usually don't. And by the way, you'll never want to say to her the phrase 'that's utter nonsense.' Not if you don't want something heavy and valuable thrown at you."

Hal rolls his eyes.

"One thing I have learned is that women want to 'change you for the better'. It might start with little things like the way you style your hair, or your clothes, asking you to do things differently -"

Hal interrupts again, " But I don't need change. That's the very furthest thing I need. She knows this. I need to stick to my routines, surround myself with familiar items."

"Perhaps she won't, this being... special circumstances." Federico looks dubious.

Hal sighs.

"Just remember this one rule above others. La Señorita is always right. Then you'll do just fine." The Spaniard gives him an encouraging grin.

"Well, ahh, thank you. That's quite... instructional." Hal feels even more worried than before.

As they hear the women coming down the stairs, Hal gets closer to the other man and quietly asks, "Do you have what I asked you for?"

Federico nods solemnly now and reaches in his jacket.

As Sylvie reaches the two men by the exit, she sees Federico hand something to Hal, who quickly stashes it in his boot before turning to her. She wonders idly what it is but the thought hardly has time to take root before she's being whisked into the carriage amidst goodbyes from her family and friends.

* * *

On the carriage ride over to his home - _no,_ _their home _- Hal works to suppress his reaction to the sudden loudness of her heart thudding in such close quarters. Catching himself tapping his fingers to that enchanting rhythm he balls his hands into into fists. In theory he can do this - he'd had a few human partners in the past that he kept for a while. However that had been when he'd been on the blood, imbibing copiously to keep the monster at bay, in order to enjoy other carnal pursuits. He remembers each one, so different, yet each with some quality that kept him from killing them the first time, the second time, time measured in weeks, if they were lucky, months... only to end up dead and cold when he finally... _STOP! _ Of their own accord his fingers begin again, tap tap, tap tap...

He'd never done this as Good Hal. And the fact that she was still an innocent maiden... unbidden memories of defiling virgins begin flitting through his concentration. He sighs and forces himself to list all the native trees in England by botanical name, in alphabetical order.

He glances across at Sylvie who is uncharacteristically silent, barely acknowledging him. Apart from the looks she gives him up and down - he feels like a cock being measured and weighed for supper. He most definitely refuses to blush at her blatant looks. And her giggles. Most definitely. The way she's acting reminds him of a few lusty conquests and his eyes travel to her neck as he remembers those encounters, as he remembers the taste of arousal-spiked blood... _STOP!_ Hal begins recounting Chaucer's Tales to pass the time and belatedly he realizes his error. Desperately he switches to multiplying prime numbers. Numbers should be safe. Tap tap, tap tap, tap tap.

Sylvie keeps glancing at Hal while he's lost in thought. He looks like a man going to face the gallows. Skittish as a colt, white as a sheet. Apart from surprisingly red cheeks and endearingly red ears. Sylvie feels she should say something to comfort him, but only nervous giggles escape her. How can she say anything when her heart is lodged in her throat, and she alternates between feeling faint and wanting to throw herself at him. This is a night she's only ever dreamed of, in a vague way since no one had ever told her anything about what to expect. She is fortunate to have found her new friend - the supernatural world seems to be less inhibited than the norm. Gemma had given her some information, in broad terms, and now she didn't feel completely ignorant. Her eyes are drawn to his fingers tapping rhythmically on his lap as she recalls Hal's hallucinated words, what he said he would do with those fingers and the other _French_ things he'd said. All that escapes her are giggles.

When they arrive at the house, there's a moment of pause when he opens the door. Hal motions her forward but Sylvie looks at him expectantly. Sylvie breaks the silence. "Hal, are you not forgetting something?"

"Am I?" Hal is genuinely perplexed.

"It is customary for the groom to carry the bride over the threshold. It's bad luck not to."

"Is it? I did not know that."

"But you thought women had to be sequestered before the wedding?"

"I'm afraid I'm not au fait with matrimonial matters. Let's just say it hasn't exactly been an area of interest."

He approaches her uncertainly and swoops her awkwardly into his arms. Putting her hand to her head and blinking she lets her head sink to his shoulder. Worriedly Hal asks "Is everything alright?"

"I just felt dizzy for a moment. You move very fast."

"Sorry." he says chagrined. He carries her through the doorway. Once in the foyer he pauses, uncomfortably considering whether he should put her down. But he decides to keep her in his arms and slowly carries her up the stairs to his bedroom. He stands her with care by the bed, then turns back to close the door. He pauses there tensely as the mere sight of her by the bed already begins inciting lust. _Must keep control._ He steels himself, turns and approaches her, determined.

"Sylvie, I have a present, of sorts, for you. I thought it prudent to take precautionary measures."

He takes from his boot a small vial filled with a red liquid. As he holds it out to her, Sylvie's eyes open in alarm but she takes it as offered. Hal closes her fingers over it, squeezing her hand around it gently as he explains, "This contains wolf blood. It is toxic to vampires. I want you - no I _need _you - to keep this on you at all times now that we shall be living together and... " He trails off uncomfortably. Taking a steadying breath he continues more strongly, "If I cannot control it, if I... manifest, you must fight me Sylvie, fight with every ounce of strength you have, and shove this into my mouth. The glass will break and the blood... will have its effect on me."

Sylvie frowns. "What will it do to you?"

"It will eat my organs from the inside out and turn me into dust." Seeing her shake her head in denial and open her mouth he intercepts, "No Sylvie, there is no negotiation. Promise me you will keep this secreted upon you at all times, or close to the bed when we are... intimate. I will always give you the opportunity to hide it in a random location you can reach. You mustn't hesitate to use this. Nothing else has a chance of stopping me. Even with a stake you might miss. This is a surer way. Swear it, on the love you bear for me, swear it."

Sylvie eyes well up with tears. _How dare he put his life in her hands._ But what choice does she have - she's putting her life in his. This is the price they have to pay to be together. She nods and whispers hoarsely "I swear it."

Hal lets go and turns to give her privacy. After a few moments she says "It's done."

When he turns back he avoids her gaze as he methodically begins removing his clothes, folding each garment in turn and placing them on the chair near him. He leans over to do his boots and has to hop awkwardly.

She stifles a giggle.

Hal looks more nervous that she feels. Sylvie is too busy enjoying watching him to feel nervous - watching his fingers as they undo each button, watching his hands as they fold the fabric, watching the play of his muscles with each move. Even the awkwardness of removing his boots is fascinating.

When he gets to the buttons of his trousers she makes an involuntary squeak, and he proceeds speedily with a "let's get this over with" look. She suddenly feels very flushed as she sees the bulge in his drawers. Clad only in his undergarment and a blush, he approaches her and turns her around abruptly to undo the buttons down her back. Sylvie feels his fingers shaking so badly that she offers to undo her own buttons and laces.

Hal breathes a sigh of relief and looks down at the floor, wincing slightly as her dress, chemise, corset, garters and stockings are thrown in a puddle on the floor. He realizes he's been staring down at them for longer than necessary and she's making no move to tidy up so he brings his eyes up quickly but not before catching a glimpse of her nakedness. This causes the bulge to get larger. _Must keep control. _Hal reaches with shaky fingers to remove the pins that hold up her hair.

"Oww."  
"Sorry."  
Pulled hair.

Flustered he gathers her hair forward as it falls to cover her neck and shoulders. That should help with the temptation, though there's nothing to drown out the sound of her blood flowing. Then closing his eyes he leans down to kiss her.

"Oww."  
"Sorry."  
Smashed noses.

Opening his eyes he kisses her again. When he feels himself relaxing as she brings her arms around his neck, he places his hands on her waist to pull them slightly apart, resisting the urge to pull her closer. _Must keep control. _He breaks the kiss and quickly scoops her up to lay her on the bed.

"Oww."  
"Sorry."  
Banged her head on the headboard.

_Stupid, stupid, slow down. But keep control. _Sighing, he removes his drawers and, ignoring her gasp, quickly climbs in next to her pulling up the covers over them. He leans over her and kisses her again - it's the safest course of action. She reaches to pull him closer but he resists. Instead he goes to move her slightly away and ends up shoving his hand into her armpit.

She giggles.

He pulls back mortified. "Would you excuse me for a moment?" He asks, barely waiting for her nod of acquiescence before he rolls to the end of the bed and sits up, turning away.

At a loss Sylvie resorts to her normal way of handling uncomfortable situations. "Hal, you have done this before, have you not? It's only that, well I haven't, but I am fairly certain it should not end that way."

He laughs nervously at the absurdity of her statement.

"I'm sorry, I should not have said that."

"No, it's fine. You're right. I'm just..." he huffs, "this has not gotten off to a good start."

Sylvie sits up and puts a reassuring hand on his arm. "Hal, I know you're frightened of losing control and that is why you're so... well, awkward. I understand. We don't have to do anything you are not comfortable with. Perhaps... just... holding each other? Anything more can wait. It can wait a day, it can wait forever. I love you and will take whatever piece of you I can have, whatever you're prepared to give."

Hal twists his torso to look at her over his shoulder. The complete sincerity he sees in her eyes makes something clench around his heart, makes him want to weep. He doesn't deserve her. Softly he says, "In all of my long life, I have never met a single person that did not want something from me."

With a teary smile she reaches over and caresses his cheek. "Until now."

He gives her a tender smile that melts her heart.

"Until now." Hal affirms, experiencing an epiphany with just those two words. Until now his life had been ruled by dissatisfaction. It had led him as a young boy to leave his home, once his last mother had died; to seek adventure at sea, to become a mercenary, to go into battle. It had led him to make that fateful choice, to accept the vampire's gift even if it came at a price. It had led him to embrace that curse, to become the epitome of it . Until now every person, every encounter, every emotion has been a pale fragment of what he is truly searching for. Until he met _her_. Until now he's never experienced completeness.

Sylvie drops her hand from his face and half turns away, her eyes scanning the room. "Do you know where the servants have put my robe?"

If he ever stands a chance at beating the monster it is now. Rather than overthink each step, each move, he will let his heart guide him. Hal takes a deep breath as he lets his death-grip on control slip.

Sylvie moves to get up but is stopped by Hal's hand on her wrist and his firm, "Don't."

Turning back questioningly, she is surprised to see a change in him, his shoulders relaxed, his eyes soft.

He turns his whole body to face her and as his gaze travels down the length of her body she feels instant heat suffuse her in time with the path of his eyes. As his eyes come back to her face he looks at her through his long lashes, the green within the hazel heightened with the desire she sees in them.

Seeing his look as an invitation, she gazes at him, drinking in the flexed muscles of his arms as his hands push down on the mattress, the taut ridges of his stomach, the very obvious state of his arousal. Her eyes go wide with some panic -_ that isn't going to fit._ But that thought flees as he reaches for her.

Ever so gently, as if she were a spun glass figurine, Hal lays Sylvie back, and follows down to lay at her side, putting his weight on his hip and elbow but letting his torso and thighs touch her. With one hand, and his eyes, he begins to caress her body. Avoiding her neck he begins at the outer arm just below her shoulder and lazily brushes just the tips of his fingers in small circles, working his way down to her fingertips. He pauses at her hand to gently intwine his fingers with hers, looking back at her tenderly as he traces circles along the pulse at her wrist with his thumb before going up the sensitive inner arm just as lazily. Trailing across, just brushing the tops of her breasts, he begins caressing her other arm in the same fashion.

Sylvie's eyes follow Hal's progress, her skin on fire everywhere his cool fingers touch. He lets his fingertips move down her ribs, pausing at her waist to turn her slightly towards him before tracing the sensuous curve of her hip and thigh. When he gets to her knee he gives her a wicked look that sends a sharp shock of desire into her. His fingers snake to the sensitive back of her knee and he gently lifts it up to gain access to her inner thighs. She holds her breath in anticipation.

As his gaze sweeps back down he feels his desire rise, the pressure in his groin starting to become unbearable. Silently counting backwards from one thousand to keep his lust in check, he trails his fingers up her inner thigh, stopping to caress the soft skin at the edge of her pelvis, teasingly skimming the hairline.

Sylvie, feeling restless at both his intimate touch and his hardness against her hipbone, undulates her hips but he only switches to her other thigh, repeating the tease.

Hal notes with satisfaction her muscles quivering under his touch. His inner count is disrupted when he notices her toes curl - it is at once endearing and erotic, making him think of all the ways he can incite more toe curling from her.

Beads of sweat break out throughout his body and with a ragged breath he forces his attention back up to start his next torture. Shifting his weight and cradling her neck with his hands he kisses her deeply this time, moulding their parted lips together repeatedly. Letting his experience guide him, Hal touches her mouth tentatively with the tip of his tongue. He brushes his tongue across her upper lip, licking and caressing it back and forth multiple times before tugging on it, sucking gently.

Sylvie whimpers as she feels electric tingles and when he nips at her lower lip playfully then slowly slides his tongue in exploratorily, she nearly jumps out of her skin.

With languid strokes he slides in and out in an echo of the pleasure to come. He tilts her head in the direction best to guide the dance of their tongues as his fingers trace whisper soft circles along the sensitive line at the nape of her neck. He feels her shiver under his touch.

Feeling Hal's tongue in her mouth triggers a pressure deep inside her and she grabs his hair to tangle their tongues closer, wanting more.

As she begins to writhe, her legs seesawing with nervous energy, Hal slides one of his palms down between her breasts, over her abdomen and down between her thighs. His whole body tenses in anticipation as he reaches the triangular patch of hair, and he waits a moment, enjoying the feeling before he crooks his fingers exploratorily, stroking her, feeling the nub harden under his touch. The thought of the blood rushing there, his sensitive fingers feeling her swelling with it, causes a pulsation in his mouth, the pressure from his fangs starting to build. She breaks the kiss and he captures her startled "Oh my god!" against his lips with a smile.

Her eyes lose focus as she feels his fingers evoke sensations like nothing she'd ever imagined. He expertly undulates his long fingers and soon she closes her eyes, arching her back and and tilting her head up, inadvertently exposing her delicate neck. Hal's eyes are inexorably drawn to it and he feels the blood lust start to take hold. Trying to dispel it, he forces his eyes closed and concentrates on what his fingers are doing, venturing lower down and in, feeling her wetness and heat. When she lifts her hips and buckles into him with a moan, twin urges fire and pulse like lightning through him: the need to be inside her, the need to taste her.

Breathing heavily to control the conflicting lusts he continues to tease with his fingers for a minute before bringing his hand up and shifting himself on top of her. His own gasp mingles with hers at the feel of their skin touching the whole length of their bodies, her heat enticing him further. Sylvie arches her body to feel maximum contact.

He touches his forehead to hers, fighting to hang on, barely keeping the frenzy at bay. He _needs_ to fulfil one urge before the other can overtake him. He nudges her thighs apart with one knee and with supreme slowness settles himself against her.

Sylvie is lost in the feelings of desire overwhelming her, a throbbing ache building. When she feels his hardness press against her, her knees fall apart instinctively to allow him better access.

Hal hears her heart hammering, the blood rushing enticingly. Her quick shallow breaths caress his face and her body is straining against him. He can't hold back any longer. He reaches down to cup her buttock, tilting her and lining up their bodies before easing himself in minutely. Groaning he unconsciously lifts his head to stare at her neck, mesmerized by the pulsing artery, the pressure of his fangs too much to fight as he plunges all the way in.

Her startled cry of pain brings him back from the brink. He blinks, to clear his vision, to dispel the hazy feeling of all the lust coursing through him, returning to the realization that he'd broken through her maidenhead. He anxiously looks into her startled eyes, both of them tense and breathing hard. He remains motionless to give her time to recover, to give himself time to master control. With difficulty he sheathes his fangs and drops his forehead down to hers once more whispering, "I'm so sorry. The pain _will_ pass."

Though tears leak from her eyes Sylvie acknowledges his words and actions with a small nod. She had been told to expect it, but it was still a shock. And when she'd opened her eyes, she'd caught a glimpse of black in his eyes before he cleared them. Oddly his fangs don't scare her, but it is a relief when they disappear. Concentrating on just breathing she puts her trust in him.

When he feels the bloodlust well in hand and he finally feels her calming down he smoothes back her hair and nuzzles her nose tenderly. He begins placing tender kisses along her forehead, kisses away the tears at the edges of her eyes, kisses her cheeks, her jaw, the corners of her lips. He resists the urge to trail kisses down her neck.

When he feels her body relax he whispers her name to get her attention and he begins the process of arousing her once more. Passionate kisses and roaming hands start to work their magic. He reaches between their bodies to stroke her again. Only when he feels her move does he gently rock his hips in a slow tease. Her breath quickens and he hears her heart pump faster. He keeps his eyes on her dewy face, determined to control his hunger as he guides them into a gentle union.

Sylvie once again feels an ache building, threatening to engulf her and she arches into him wanting more. As he speeds up she matches his moves, losing all coherent thought as she's suddenly lost in waves of pleasure.

When Hal feels Sylvie tighten and spasm, he lets himself get lost in the sounds of her gasps, he drowns the bloodlust with the sensations of their lovemaking, finding his own release...

As their breathing slows and their bodies cool down, Hal rolls off of her and gathers her to him, pulling the covers over them and tucking her head on the hollow of his shoulder. Neither speak as the sensations and emotions of the long day give way to sleep.

* * *

A posey ring is a promise or wedding ring inscribed with a short love poem, or poesy. They were popular in Shakespeare's time and mentioned in his writings, but originated in the 1400's. Don't worry, Sylvie's will be described in a later chapter.


	8. Chapter 8: Strange and Beautiful

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Incredibly thankful beyond words for the world that Toby Whithouse has created and for the character of Hal that Damien Molony has brought to life. All mistakes are my own.**

**Real Life has gotten quite full but I'm still trying to publish about every two weeks.**

**Reviews, faves, and follows make me happy. So do comments on the Twitter. **

******Many thanks to Saemay, ****TJ4ev, and walkbythesea **for beta. Your input was extra helpful on this one.

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

**Ch. 8: Strange and Beautiful**

Hal watches the light filtering through the curtains glowing upon Sylvie's face, highlighting the outline of her nose, the curve of her cheek, emphasizing the long dark eyelashes. A ray is caught in her long dishevelled locks, the warm auburn hints firing in her deep brown hair. She is breathtaking.

As a predator he would have used the clues written on her face to tailor his seduction. Her lips, naturally upturned, even in sleep, indicate a pleasant disposition. Her frequently arched eyebrow reflects her incessant curiosity. The shape of her nose & chin suggest aristocratic French ancestry. The smoothness of her skin, the brightness of her eyes, even her teeth... these all give clues to the sort of approach that would lure her in.

Instead he finds himself just... looking. He notes the sprinkling of freckles on the bridge of her nose trailing off onto her cheeks. He smiles at the full curve of her lips - even when closed their plumpness leaves a seductive little gap. Her eyebrows arch up pleasantly - not quite symmetric - but that only adds to rather than detracts from her overall beauty. There's a little line etched at the edge of her lip due to her frequent lopsided grin. He's been subjected to that particular mischievous grin more times than he'd like.

It feels refreshing to wake up next to a warm body, not having his first thought be about disposing of it. To be able to relax while taking in her features unobserved: not thinking about his next drink; not clouded from the effects of a binge; not feeling the jitters signaling the need for more. He still feels the hunger, still feels the pull of her strong heartbeat, but it's easier to manage, to store the sensation away into a place where he can manage it. Like tuning out the incessant whine of flies - something he's had much experience with considering how many bloody bodies he's been around.

Hal takes one finger and touches a curl of her hair, waking her up.

When Sylvie awakens the first thing she sees is Hal gazing down at her. _ Heaven._ She gives him a timid smile and is rewarded by a boyish grin. That look coupled with his tousled hair are like an invitation to kiss him. Instead she bursts out, "Hal, you really know how to grow hair!"

His crooked grin gets bigger as he chuckles at her absurd comment.

"I'm curious, how do you shave?"

"You're always curious." Hal answers, raising his eyebrows. But he continues matter of factly, "It's not difficult when it's all you've ever known. Even as a human I did not have access to a mirror and those were not as clear as they are now. The only sort of reflective surfaces were bowls of water, water collected in ruts after rainfall, ponds or lakes. If I was lucky a scrap of metal would do."

"I could give you a shave, if you like. I used to shave my father and he found it very soothing. And your hair. I'm fair with the shears"

Hal gives her a worried frown. _What was it the werewolf had said?_ "No! I mean, it's quite alright. I've managed this long. And there is an excellent barber in town that I have employed to come here for cutting my hair. On a schedule." Seeing her disappointed face he adds, "But thank you."

"Well, if you are not quite ready for a shave this morning, I can think of something else we could do." She smiles suggestively.

Hal frowns, "What? _Now_?"

Raking her eyes from his bare chest, down the trail of hair from his navel to his hips swathed in the bed sheet she bites her lip, looks back up and says, "It appears that you're up to the challenge."

All humour gone Hal hunches in, draping his arm across himself modestly.

"I don't think that's such a good idea. Last night, I almost... perhaps it's best to wait until I feel more in control."

"Not too much control I hope."

"Sylvie, this isn't a jesting matter! I could have killed you. I almost **did**."

"But you didn't. Hal, won't it be easier, now that you know what to expect?"

"I honestly don't know." He whispers before continuing firmly, "However, the day has only begun and -"

She interrupts, "Are there rules prohibiting relations during the day?"

"No, not exactly. It's just... my list -"

"Is this something we have to schedule on your list?" Her voice rises.

"No, certainly not."

"Is it me then? Is there something wrong with me?"

"No!" His voice cracks as he panics at how far this conversation has gone. "It's only that I think it best if you... ahhh... have some time to... recover." He looks supremely uncomfortable.

"What if I don't need any time to recover? What happened to 'with my Body I thee worship?'"

Hal raises his voice, "What happened to 'Wilt thou obey him'?"

Sylvie relents. "Very well Hal, I won't ravish you right now. However, I cannot promise you that won't change after breakfast."

He raises his eyebrows. "You know for a girl of your chaste upbringing, you are quite... coy."

Sylvie retorts, "For a man who chained up girls, having his way with and feeding off them for months, you are quite the prude."

She knows she went too far when she sees his haunted look. He whispers, "You truly have no understanding of the horrors I'm capable of. You are playing with fire."

"Fire can be a useful tool."

Hal makes an irritated sound. He moves to get up, then glances down flustered; attempting to keep himself covered with the sheet would mean removing it from her. With a nervous sigh he gives her a tight uncomfortable look. She gives him a wide grin. Finally he stands, letting the sheet drop, turns away and quickly goes over to where his dressing gown is hanging. Once he's covered he turns back. "I think perhaps you would be pleased to go to your rooms now. I took the liberty of selecting the ones across the hall and having all your belongings located there."

Sylvie had been quite enjoying the sight of his backside, but now stops grinning, puzzled. "Excuse me? What is wrong with _this_ room? It's a fair size to be shared by the both of us."

"Surely your parents have their own rooms? This is de rigeur for couples of our social standing. And also I have a system. Everything has a place..." He stares down at the puddle of her garments on the floor disdainfully. "... there is order."

Sylvie is piqued, "Of course I expect to have my own room. It's just that, I had hoped we could share a room, for the most part, staying together, spending our days together. And I wanted to watch you shave."

"I need to keep my routines and that includes having my room and personal items unchanged. I have a list that I follow, a schedule to keep me busy, to keep my mind occupied. This is how I resist the urges to kill. If there are too many disruptions I can't be held accountable for my actions."

"I'm your wife and I live here too now. I am supposed to be part of the solution, not excluded from it. How do I fit in your list? How do I fit in your life?"

Mistaking her inquiries for enthusiasm Hal starts, "Well, there are meal times of course, we can certainly spend those in company. Reading, calligraphy, paper folding, press-ups, those are solitary events. I go for a daily ride, that really is the only time I have away from people altogether, so that's out of the question. Then there's..."

Sylvie tunes him out as she narrows her eyes. Her first day of marriage is _not _turning out as she had envisioned. Here he is blathering on about his list and all she wants right at this moment is for him to decide to stay with her all day, doing as they please. Of course he needs order and it will be good to have some scheduled activities, but she's never been one for structure and she doesn't want them to be apart all day. She had hoped they would compromise and follow some of her interests as well. Finally she decides to interrupt him; she can tell he really has no clue that nothing he's saying is pleasing her at all.

"Aren't you just a ray of sunshine." She gets up, not attempting to conceal herself at all as she crosses the room to get her robe. Hal looks away. "Well Hal, you've certainly accomplished one thing already this morning. I'm quite cheesed off. Is that on your list? I'll go to my room now!" And with that she leaves.

* * *

At breakfast they sit in silence until finally she asks curiously if she can have a copy of his schedule. He doesn't see the harm in it, in fact thinks it is a good idea for her to familiarize herself with his routines, so he delightedly writes her a copy. He doesn't seem to notice the speculation on her face.

The first couple days are uneventful, pleasant. Sylvie is civil, if less enthusiastic than normal. This suits him, so he doesn't think much of it and goes on with his routines. The first night there is an awkward moment when they go upstairs and pause at Sylvie's door. He is unsure of what to do as she looks at him expectantly. Finally she simply turns around with a soft, "good night Hal", and leaves him standing in the corridor. _It's for the best_, Hal thinks as he goes to his room and prepares for sleep as he normally would. One night with her wasn't enough to change the ingrained habits of half a dozen years, not enough to trouble him. And yet when he wakes in the morning he turns his head towards the side she'd been just a day ago, feeling a pang, envisioning her there with the sun highlighting her sleeping face.

The second day goes on much as the first. While he's doing most of his morning routines he hears her playing at the pianoforte, her lovely soubrette voice echoing up a surprisingly welcome addition to the calming tasks he engages in. Their midday meal together is pleasant; she seems to have gotten on with the servants and has her own pursuits. When he's reading he hears her singing again, this time out in the garden, and goes down to give her a gentle reminder that it's reading time. She amiably stops, asking if he'd like to go for a walk, and he's tempted, but decides to stick to his list. His customary ride is uneventful. That night she excuses herself early.

The third day begins the torture.

When she comes down to breakfast she's wearing a flighty embroidered white gown he's never seen before. It looks innocent enough but has a way of emphasizing her graceful curves as she moves. He'd always had a weakness for women in white. _Was she somehow prescient?_

He starts his routines and shortly after he hears her playing and singing once more. He sighs contentedly until he realizes she's playing something different.

_Oh there was a young lady from Grosvenor Square  
__Who said that her clock was in need of repair  
__In walks the bold German and to her delight  
__In less than five minutes he'd set her clock right.__  
_

The tune sounds like a folk song. He thought he'd made sure none of that type of music had come with her. He frowns as he makes out the words - he's fairly certain the song is not about clocks in the literal sense.

_Now as they were seated down on the floor  
__There came a very loud knock on the door  
__In walked her husband and great was his shock  
__For to see the old German wind up his wife's clock...__  
_

He winces, putting his head in his hands. Dear God, she is singing a bawdy tavern song. He can only hope the servants do not comprehend the double entendre.

When her singing comes to an end he sighs in relief, but it doesn't last. He hears her clear sweet voice once again, his little lark, but what comes out of her mouth is anything but sweet.

_A lusty young smith at his vise stood a filing,  
His hammer laid by but his forge still aglow,  
When to him a buxom young damsel came smiling  
and asked if to work at her forge he would go._

He stands up abruptly. He knows this one. "The Lusty Young Smith" he whispers to himself with a look of horror. He hurries down the hall, practically running, and comes in just as she's finishing another verse.

_Her Husband, she said, no good work could afford her;  
His strength and his tools were worn out long ago.  
The smith said, "Well mine are in very good order,  
__And now I am ready my skill for to show__  
_

"Sylvie!"

She ignores him and raises her voice even further.

_Six times did his iron, by vigorous heating  
Grow soft in the forge in a minute or so,  
__And often was hardened, still beating and beating,  
__But each time it softened it hardened more slow.__  
_

"Sylvie, **Stop**!"

She quiets, smiling at him sweetly, innocently. "What's wrong Hal?"

"What's _wrong_? He huffs incredulously. "That song. It's... " he takes a breath, "I hardly think the subject matter is appropriate. Where did you even learn that song?"

She just keeps smiling at him and shrugs.

"I would appreciate if you kept the music to something more suitable. That tune is common, unsophisticated. I prefer the baroque style of music. Bach, Handel... these are proper composers. However, if you prefer some of that wild modern music, what about that young man that is rising to popularity, what is his name? Beethoven? I do try to keep up."

"Yes Hal. Whatever you wish Hal."

He narrows his eyes at her compliance. She's normally opinionated to the extreme. "But stay away from that Mozart. His music is barbaric!" She nods. "Good!" He leaves to continue his routines.

He soon finds out she wasn't compliant after all.

Throughout the morning she finds excuses to barge in wherever he is, asking him questions she knows very well the servants are more than capable of answering. He points this out, repeatedly, and she apologizes, but shortly after repeats her behaviour. When he's reading she comes in ostensibly to "borrow" a book. He tries to concentrate on his reading but winces as she rummages through the shelves, removing books at random, replacing them out of order. When they converse at mealtime, she manages to insert suggestive words into any subject he initiates. He refuses to rise to her taunts. Each time they cross paths she manages to flaunt herself in a very unladylike manner; bending to grab a book on a lower shelf, her back to him; bending to pick up a dropped spoon, her low bodice within view; arching her neck up as the wind ruffles the tendrils of hair while they have tea in the patio. Lifting her skirt higher than strictly necessary as she steps across puddles when he agrees to accompany her on a short walk. He keeps averting his eyes. Once he hears her mutter under her breath, "I married a eunuch."

With relief he finally leaves for his ride, a time he can truly relax his guard without any interruptions or temptations around him. He breathes in the fresh air and tries to forget the taxing morning. He returns in a better mood until he gets to the stable and there is no groom to greet him. No stable boy either. As he dismounts he hears clapping and cheering coming from the back gardens and goes to investigate.

He raises his eyebrows in disbelief at the sight that greets him.

Lined up along one side is most of the house staff, still cheering. And along the wide path between flower beds is Sylvie doing some sort of flipping exercise, throwing her heels up over her head. She has her skirts tied up high, exposing her shapely ankles, calves, knees, even part of her thighs. Worse yet, she has no stockings on.

As he approaches the servants see him and disband immediately. They do not wish to incur his wrath. Sylvie is in mid-flip and does not notice until he blocks her path. She comes to a breathless stop in front of him, wild-haired and ruddy.

Hal scowls in deep disapproval. "Sylvie, what in God's name are you doing? This is madness!"

Taking a few deep breaths she replies, "Oh hello Hal. Nice of you to join us." She smiles at him sweetly.

He continues to frown.

"My family took me to the Circus in London a few years ago. It was marvelous and they had acrobatic performers who did these flips. I believe they are called cartwheels. I practiced for months until I was able to do it."

Hal looks blankly. "Circus?"

"Yes Hal, haven't you heard of the circus? They have riders on horses doing tricks, acrobats, clowns. It's been around since before I was born."

Hal shakes his head. "I have never heard of it. However, I have seen jesters perform cartwheels before. What I want to know is why you are doing it. And here. And in this state of undress? For Chrissakes, there were men watching you. This is scandalous! You're a married woman now."

"Oh yes, that's right. I _am_ married. Sorry I'd forgotten, considering my _husband_ seems to have no interest in me whatsoever." She picks up her shoes and stockings and stalks off leaving him to watch her swaying hips and bare legs. She calls over her shoulder, "And don't you dare do anything to the servants."

She doesn't come out of her room the rest of the evening. When he passes her door he hears crying. He thinks perhaps he should knock, but can think of nothing to say, so goes to bed.

The following day is a complete turnaround.

Sylvie is dressed in the most modest fashion he's ever seen on her. She even wears a shawl and gloves and, he's happy to see, proper stockings and shoes. Her hair is up in a simple and sensible chignon. She's very quiet, answering in monosyllables when addressed but otherwise not talking. All morning and afternoon the only sound to be heard is silence, the only sight to be seen is empty rooms. Blessedly, no singing or humming or laughing, no interruptions, no evocative gestures or insinuating banter. Why does it suddenly seem _too_ quiet? His solitary ride does not bring the relief it normally does and he finds himself looking forward to returning.

* * *

Such a simple thing; she isn't even trying to provoke him. They sit stiffly at late afternoon tea, not making any conversation. He'd been watching her surreptitiously while she ignored him altogether. He is finishing his tea, black with a splash of water, when in a childish gesture she takes the honey dipper, tilts her head back, and drizzles honey directly into her mouth. He is about to chastise her but becomes entranced by her neck as he she swallows. Then with a chortle and an unintentional carefree glance at him she catches some errant honey from the side of her mouth with her finger and innocently puts it into her mouth. Her rosy lips form a perfect 'O' as she licks the stubborn honey off.

It isn't so much that he loses control, overcome by his urges. No, it is more like entering a trance. One second he sits stone still, his eyes following her actions; the next second he very calmly and deliberately stands up, places his napkin on the table and saunters over to her. As she looks up at him surprised he takes the honey dipper out of her hand and places it the jar. In one fluid move, he slides her chair out 90 degrees and scoops her up.

"Hal, what are you doing?"

He doesn't bother answering. He takes her upstairs, barely pausing to close the door of his bedroom with his foot, and promptly deposits her on the bed, where she sits wide-eyed at his sudden change. Never unlocking his eyes from hers, his fingers fly as he all but tears off his waistcoat -wincing slightly as he peripherally sees two buttons pop to the floor - and uncharacteristically tosses it aside. He pulls his linen undershirt over his head and tosses it as well. Then he removes his boots and socks, pads over in just his trousers and kneels on the bed.

He tosses off her scarf and rips the gloves off her hands. He moves behind her, quickly undoing the buttons down her back, caressing her shoulders as he pulls off her sleeves. He unlaces her stays, his fingers brushing against her spine, stroking goosebumps, as he removes her undergarment. Moving around in front he partially lifts her up to shimmy her dress and chemise off. He unhooks her garters, and noting the vial peeking up from the edge of her stocking, he tosses her stays. Leaving her in only her stockings, he turns his back to her, urging in a gravelly voice, "Hide it!"

She slides it under the mattress quickly, then touches his back.

He turns, and she sees him swallow thickly before he takes her hands and guides them to the waist of his trousers. She stares at the ridges of his stomach, at the contours of his hips protruding from the waistline, as she unbuttons the trousers. She leans in and kisses the hollow of his left hipbone. He tenses his stomach, lets out a startled gasp, and her lips twitch in a smile. She kisses the hollow on the other side for good measure. She moves to lower his trousers but he stops her with a husky, "Not yet. My turn to torment."

He pushes her back and begins to slowly slide her stockings off, kissing her skin along the path the material exposes. She sighs happily at feeling his soft full lips on her. Once both stockings are removed, he trails kisses back up her legs, across her hips, up towards her breasts, causing goosebumps and a blush of sweat to break out over her entire body. She arches up with a moan as his lips brush against her breast and his fingers trail down to tease her below. Once her sighs turn to pants and she starts tilting up against him, he pauses to tug off his trousers and pants as she looks on.

Then she reaches out to touch him, to grab him and he moans. She starts to sit back up, but he doesn't let her. With a sudden surge of lust, Hal places his hands on her hips and flips her forcibly, exposing the sensuous curve of her spine. Her hair is still up, her delicate neck is exposed. He caresses his hands slowly down the sides of her ribcage down to her waist, over the curve of her buttocks then trails the tips of his fingers in an upward motion along her spine, sending delicious tingles through her. He braces his forearms on either side of her as he brings his weight down and brings his lips to the nape of her neck. His lips linger, brushing, softly as a whisper, from side to side as he inhales deeply - fresh, sweet lavender laced with a minerally undercurrent. He lifts his head trying to break away from the intoxicating scent but brings it down immediately to nuzzle her neck again, this time the tip of his tongue tentatively brushing across her skin. _Oh God, her skin tastes of salt._

Without losing sight of her neck he takes one hand and lifts her arms above her head and shifts his weight to nudge his knee between her thighs. Settling himself against her, he thrusts in as his lips, unbidden, come to her neck a third time, his tongue languishing across the curvature. One lick. One thrust. Another lick and thrust. And then he suckles at the tender skin, reveling in the briny taste. He feels his vision shift and his fangs unsheath and he pulls back quickly. One breath. Two breaths. Staring at the spot where the jugular vein lies just out of his direct sight. _So easy to pierce, so easy to taste... _his mouth waters in anticipation of the taste. "NO!" he exclaims, wrenching his eyes away. He closes them, trying to fight the visceral need that threatens to swallow him. With a couple more shaky breaths he concentrates on other sensations. The heat emanating off her body, her hands gripping his hand as he holds her down, the remembered sighs and moans, his arousal hard against her softness.

In a sudden movement he shifts off her and flips her over, locking his eyes with her startled ones, their depths still holding traces of her desire. As he stares into them he finds some calm and his vision returns to normal, his fangs regress. He can hear her heart pumping madly, but whether from desire or horror he is unsure. Out of his peripheral vision he sees her hand, the vial clutched in it, move over the side of the bed. It comes back empty. Exhaling shakily the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, he slowly brings his head down, his lips hovering over hers, his eyes silently questioning. In answer she brings her hand to twine in his disheveled hair, pulling him to her parted lips.

The sweet honey lingering on her lips helps overcome the salty temptation, helps quench _that_ hunger. The way she writhes her hips against his, thighs parting in invitation, inflames his lust. Clenching the sheets with his fists on either side he enters her, the enveloping warmth almost undoing him. Needing to lose himself in her, he grabs her hip, tilting her up, and drives deep, hard, fast, the soft thud of their skin meeting punctuated by her moans and cries, driving him to oblivion.

* * *

Sylvie is still in a state of bliss, barely able to catch her breath. She can't believe what just happened, neither the euphoria she's experienced, nor the fear she felt at seeing him transformed. Their coupling had been more powerful than the first time and the danger far more tangible. Will she ever get used to either? His teeth are the threat and yet it is the soulless look in the ink black eyes that scared her unlike anything else. The thought of losing him to that grips her with fear. But she shoves those thoughts out of her head. They are for another time. She wants to enjoy the moment, enjoy him.

Peering over at him, he is laying on his side looking at her, his face unreadable. She can't help teasing him, "Well Hal, is this added to your list now?"

He frowns, "Sylvie, this isn't a game." He moves to turn away but she follows, pinning him on his back by draping her leg over his, her arm across his chest.

To encourage him she says seriously, "No, you are right. This isn't a game. This is the world of you and I, our strange and beautiful reality."

"I very nearly killed you. That's twice now, and both times I could feel the hunger rear up. The first time, if you hadn't cried out in pain I'm not sure I would have stopped."

"And this time?"

"This time you should have used the wolf's blood! You promised me -"

She silences him with her finger over his lips, "Don't. Please don't ruin this moment for me."

He's quiet long enough that she is surprised when he continues the conversation, "This time, I stopped."

She smiles at him, "You stopped."

His face brightens, his eyes soften, "Somehow, in that moment, when I felt the bloodlust, I thought of you yesterday, all the interruptions, all the distractions. Rather than feel relief I felt... empty. It wasn't a feeling I was ready to live with."

"Aww, you love me, don't you Hal?" She says it nonchalantly, but her throat constricts.

He gives a little laugh. His fingers tease a lock of hair behind her ear, then trail down her neck, pausing to caress the contour of her clavicle before he drops his hand. Then haltingly, testing, he lifts his head up and kisses the hollow notch at the base of her throat. He lingers, his soft lips brushing along the ridge as his fingers had, before dropping back to the pillow. His eyes are intense, hooded - but clear. "You've certainly put some sort of spell on me."

Her heart, barely having recovered, speeds up instantly. Shivering, Sylvie traces his lips, licking hers. "I think we're both spellbound."

Hal is thoughtful. "Curiously, when I kissed you I tasted the sweetness left on your lips. It helped calm the hunger, in a fashion."

"Well, you've hit upon the perfect solution! I will cover myself in honey so that you won't be tempted."

He looks at her with a mixture of disapproval and panic. "Wouldn't that be... ahh... sticky...?"

Sylvie laughs at his outrage as she slides herself further over him and tilts her head down for a kiss. She feels him respond, becoming hard, and she rubs herself against him. "Very well, we'll skip that part - this time."

* * *

**Chapter title and inspiration is Strange & Beautiful by Aqualung. It's an intoxicating song, especially when you listen on continuous loop for 2 weeks!**

**I may have gotten a bit carried away with the filth once again, but please - it's HAL! I promise it wont all be this... um... detailed. But her body IS one of the main ways she keeps him clean so my hands are tied. darn ;)**

**A soubrette voice is light with a bright, sweet timbre. It is not a weak voice but has a lighter vocal weight than other soprano voices. Many young singers start out as soubrettes before their voice matures.**

**Sylvie's first bawdy song, "The German Clockwinder", is an Irish drinking song with origins that have been lost in time.**

**Sylvie's second bawdy song is a few verses from _The Lusty Young Smith by _Thomas d'Urfey (1653 – 1723) He wrote witty satirical plays, songs and poetry, and his country songs tended to be more than a little bawdy.**


	9. Chapter 9: Lonely in Your NIghtmare

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Incredibly thankful beyond words for the world that Toby Whithouse has created and for the character of Hal that Damien Molony has brought to life. All mistakes are my own.**

**Reviews, faves, and follows make me happy. So do comments on the Twitter.**

******Thank you TJ4ev for reviewing this one. **

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

**Ch. 9 Lonely in Your Nightmare**

When Sylvie was eleven her brother died and she'd gone to live with her grandmother for almost two years. Nan's maid, Moira, was a no-nonsense Irish woman in her middle years from a small village in northern Ireland. She'd taught Sylvie many things, saucy Irish tavern songs being one of them.

She'd been the one in charge of Sylvie the day Father Brunn had tried to have his way with her. Moira had heard the man's scream of pain and come across Sylvie running out of the back room of the parish church after leaving his letter opener in his thigh. Sylvie never did find out what Moira had said to the vicar, but the man had explained away his wound, saying he'd carelessly tripped and the implement had been hanging at the edge of his desk.

While comforting Sylvie, Moira had said "Them men o' God, they tink themselves above everyone else. They tink because they said some words they don't have the same urges, but their pricks stand up at attention in the mornings like any oter man's, and it takes over their tinking just the same." At Sylvie's confused look she'd gone on to explain.

It appears that something similar happens to vampires.

The second morning in his bed, Sylvie wakes with a start. She finds Hal hovering over her, his knees straddling her thighs, his arousal quite evident. However, instead of the sweet-faced sight of the previous awakening, this time his eyes are black and his lips are parted, the sharp tips of his fangs visible. She screams in terror, frozen, and he hisses at her softly before suddenly blinking his eyes clear. They stare at each other wide-eyed before Hal rolls away, sliding to the edge of the bed, sitting with his back to her. "Oh God, Sylvie, I'm sorry." He says in a slurred sort of way.

Heart thudding like it wants to pound out of her chest, Sylvie tries to breathe through her fright.

After a couple dozen pounding heartbeats he asks in a clearer voice, "Sylvie, why didn't you use the werewolf blood last night? You promised me."

She tries to speak but her racing heart is still lodged in her throat.

"_This_ is proof I cannot be trusted."

_Bloody hell, give me time to recover, to think!_ However before she can answer him, there is a knocking at the door. "Is everything alright Syl- Miss Sylvie? Lord Yorke?"

Making an irked noise, Hal gets up and puts his dressing gown on. Annoyance clear in his posture, he strides to the door, opening it abruptly and saying in clipped tones, "_Mrs. Yorke_ is perfectly fine. She was simply frightened by a... spider. It has been taken care of." Without further ado he starts closing the door.

Sylvie can see the housekeeper, Gertrude, trying to peer around Hal to ascertain if he spoke the truth. "Wait Hal!" He pauses, looking at her expectantly. She waves at him to step aside as she sits up, modestly draping a blanket around herself. Hal frowns but moves, giving the housekeeper an unobstructed view of the bed.

Sylvie smiles comfortingly, "Yes Gertrude, I am quite well. It is as Hal explained." Hal's frown deepens. The housekeeper smiles at Sylvie and curtsies, not meeting Hal's eyes as he shuts the door firmly. Hal huffs in irritation but before he can say anything, Sylvie says, "I like hearing you call me that. It is the first time you have, you know."

"It _is_ the proper way a servant should address you. Did I hear her correctly? Was she going to refer to you by your given name?"

"Yes, she was because I asked her to, I insisted. But Hal I like you calling me Mrs. Yorke because it is a reminder that we are tied together."

Hal ignores her. "I shall have a talk with _Mrs. Ward_ about the respect that needs to be given in her station. You shouldn't encourage such familiarity. It is unseemly."

"Actually Hal I asked everyone to call me Sylvie."

"Whyever would you do that?" He truly looks affronted.

"Because I don't like the formality. I have told you this before. And servants are people after all, I don't see why being born to different circumstances makes it necessary to address me by anything but my name. I rather like Gertrude, and Margaret is a lovely girl, thank you for assigning her as my lady's maid. James is very likeable, I never did get along with our butler. Ronald is a nice lad, and Mrs. B -"

"Who is Ronald? And who is Mrs. B. Surely that isn't her surname?"

"Ronald is the stable boy. I suppose you just call him boy. Mrs. Bellview, or Mrs. B as she prefers to be called, is your - our - cook. Do you not know the names of the people you hired to help you?"

"No, I've never had need to know them. Mrs. Ward was in charge of hiring most of the house staff, and James the grooms and gardeners and -"

"Hal, do any of them know about you, about what you are?"

"Certainly not. Very few humans ever learn about the existence of vampires. Or any supernaturals for that matter."

"Why are they so wary of you?"

"I assume you mean the healthy dose of respect they have for me. It's only proper seeing as..." Hal trails off, narrowing his eyes at her.

"Sylvie, you have an affinity for circumventing onto tangents." he huffs, "You didn't answer my earlier question."

Now that her terror is gone she feels a bit of an annoyance. "First of all, I think you'll find that this time you were the one to drift the conversation elsewhere."

"Sylvie" he says in a warning tone.

Were their mornings always going to involve some sort of confrontation? But yes, they need to have this conversation. She sighs deeply and gets up to put her dressing gown on. She notes that he still averts his eyes. "I promised that I would use it if you attacked me. I grabbed it at the first opportunity I had, but then... well I _had_ to wait. I couldn't just use it at the first sign that you were struggling could I? Because you _were_ struggling, you _weren't_ attacking. I have to give you the opportunity to fight it, to win over it."

"I don't want you to hesitate the next time."

"Well if you'll recall Hal, I wasn't exactly in a position to do anything at first, seeing as how I couldn't see you and you had me pinned down."

Hal looks uncomfortable.

"You know you are extremely adorable when you are embarrassed. How you can behave so impassioned at night but then become so straightlaced in the morning... At his look she continues, "I know. I know. Not a jesting matter." She says, mimicking him. Then she becomes serious. "But what do you wish me to say Hal? That I will kill you the next time you hiss at me? Because you simply frighten me? Should I have used the toxic blood right now? You wish me to become a widow after less than a week of being married? I knew when I pursued you what you are, what risk that entails. But I have faith in you. You need to start having some faith in yourself." As she talks she looks at him critically. He appears just as he had a few mornings ago, rested, disheveled (she can't help but smile at his hair sticking up like a haystack), unthreatening. She comes up to him and kisses his lips lightly, happy that he lets her. "Hal, what just happened? Were you awake or asleep?"

He looks down at her wary, but answers. "I was awake. Just."

"Were you going to hurt me?"

"I... I don't know." There is sadness in his eyes.

"Do you want to hurt me now?"

"No. Of course not."

"Then we'll go with that." She runs a hand through his hair. "Would you like me to give you a shave?"

"No. I think it best we carry on as before." At her disappointed look he relents, "But of course I'll meet you downstairs for breakfast and we can make a new list, one that includes activities that can be performed together." She takes her small victory. At least that is a step in the right direction.

* * *

When they sit down to figure out a new schedule, it is unsurprisingly hard to get him to concede any changes in his time. Minutes here and there for the most part. He agrees she can accompany him on rides, but it is dependent on his mood on any given day. Reading can be done companionably. Afternoon walks together are added, but he admonishes that if he feels she is too "boisterous" he might change his mind. He agrees to move some of his morning activities to the parlor where the pianoforte is located, so that he can listen to her play. But his bedroom is a sanctuary - she is not welcome during his morning ablutions, nor his private exercises or baths. Only at night, for the most part, is she invited in. Or carried in.

Time has a way of moving: days become weeks, weeks become months. Winter. A time Sylvie has never truly loved, as she has always embraced the outdoors. Most winters she'd spent many lonely yet tranquil hours with only the company of her dog, whiling away the gloom with books, music and her sketchbooks and paints. This winter is different: a dichotomy of happiness and trepidation. This winter she has Hal: her incredibly complex, awkward, volatile, passionate, selfish, haunted husband.

The morning assaults happen frequently enough that Hal concedes it's an instinctive reflex of going from a sleeping state to waking for him, at least with her there. Sylvie gradually becomes accustomed to being startled awake, somewhat. At least she hardly screams out in terror any longer, lest she frighten the servants.

Usually it's enough to say his name or to touch his cheek to bring him fully awake, aware of what he is doing. Some mornings however they spend tense moments as he struggles to control it. She can sense these mornings are different, there is an air of coiled menace about him, his body is rigid, pinning her down. She carefully gropes for the vial, wondering if it truly will save her if he can't suppress the hunger. Sometimes she feels comfort in knowing she has a weapon against him, but most times she wonders if they are just deluding themselves with a false sense of security.

And then there are the nightmares. She remembers a time when she woke from nightmares almost nightly for months after her twin had died. It had been the same terrible dream every time: he begged her to end the pain and she held him to her, a pillow firmly clutched over his face as she sang him a lullaby to push him to that final sleep. She still has that nightmare on occasion.

Hal does not have nightmares nightly, and yet they happen frequently enough that she wonders how he ever dares fall asleep in the first place. She wonders if they are due to her presence or if he's always had them. She doesn't know the contents of his dreams, exactly, but from the words he sometimes cries out she knows that blood and killing plague him during his night sojourns.

She pieces together disturbing images in her head from the English, Spanish, and French words that bubble out when he's unconscious. Once she makes out a phrase in a language she does not know. One word, wampir, is obvious but the rest she decides to find out. The next day while they are reading she asks nonchalantly. "Hal, what does the word _keyrurg_ mean?"

"Hmmm?" He looks up from his book frowning, "Do you mean _chirurg_? If so it is the Polish word for surgeon."

"What about _dusza_?"

"_Dusza _means soul. Sylvie, what on earth are you reading?" He glances over but she hides her volume of Shakespeare's comedies and ignores his inquiry. _ vampire. surgeon. soul. _ She's certain that refers to when he became a vampire, losing his soul, but doubts she'll learn the whole story. Out of the corner of her eye she sees him frown and then wince as he realizes where she got the words from. But he says nothing further.

Sometimes it's not his words or screams that wake her. In a few instances she's jolted by nighttime assaults. As in the mornings, she spends tense moments waiting for him to master his hunger. Her life is forever in his hands.

However, more often than not, Hal suffers his nightmares alone. She might wake to find him gone from their bed, taking refuge in an empty bedroom doing rounds of pressups or downstairs re-sorting his collection of books, or sitting in a dark corner staring into space, trembling. On the truly hard nights she wakes to find him curled up crying, in the bed, or on the floor.

He will not share his dreams no matter how much she asks, cajoles or begs. No matter how much she assures him that it might help. Sometimes she must leave him to work through his terrors alone. Sometimes he takes what comfort she can provide.

This winter there is little snowfall. This winter there is interminable rain. It seems like the heavens weep with her.

* * *

Sylvie wakes up suddenly, feeling that something is amiss. She turns over to find Hal's side of the bed empty. It feels cold, colder than it should even with his body unable to warm the space as a human can, which means he's been gone awhile. She gets up, pulling on her heavy pelisse over her nightgown instead of the lighter wrapper, and her velvet half-boots instead of her slippers. The weather has been icy - the rains had let up earlier in the week to be replaced by a pervasive chill. Lighting a taper at the fire she goes searching for him throughout the house but can't find him. Finally she goes outside, walking out across the barren gardens, and finds him working at one of the empty flower beds. No, not entirely empty - he'd brought out one of the heavy Argand lamps and by its light she can see that he has taken stones from other areas in the garden and has been arranging them in one area, small to large.

"Hal, why are you out here? Can you please come in, it is bloody freezing out here." At least he has on his great coat and hessian boots over his long drawers.

He continues moving stones around, comparing the one in his hand with the ones on the ground and placing it in it's proper place. She thinks he's going to ignore her but he says, "Did you know today is the Winter Solstice? The longest night of the year."

"No, love, I didn't know that."

He places three more stones before he stops and straightens up, facing her, with a sad, haunted look on his face. "Since ancient times this night has held special significance, rituals and rites of passage are performed. Ten years before you first saw me tied to that chair I participated in a very horrific act on the Winter Solstice. It was a night that changed my status as a vampire, literally changed the constitution of my existence."

He pauses but Sylvie is not sure if he's waiting for a reply from her. He so rarely lets her into his private thoughts, his memories. So she remains silent hoping he will continue.

He looks down at his handiwork then back at her. "I became an Old One that night, something I desperately wanted at the time." He closes his eyes, a tear escaping, leaving a shining trail in the lamplight. When he opens his eyes they are full of pleading, his voice is hoarse with desperation as he whispers, "the children's faces are with me while I dream."

Sylvie gasps at his pain, at the horror of what he's implying. She's torn between her love for him and the realization that he truly is the monster he claims to be. _Can she reconcile the two?_ In the end all she can do is follow her heart in the hope that it will keep him from ever reverting to that monster. All she can do is to nurture the good in him, to give him a second chance at redemption. She takes his hand as he stares despairingly.

"Come Hal, dear, I will keep you company on this longest night and drive away the nightmares."

* * *

They never talk about it of course but Sylvie disappears once a month. He has never had a problem before, the female servants having been told to avoid him during those times, but seeing how he struggles with her so intimately near him, they had come to an agreement that they should not tempt fate.

Before the inclement weather she stayed with Gemma and Federico, enjoying her time with the two people she considers her best friends, besides Hal. These are the few times she leads what could be called a normal life - going to see a play or shopping, not being ruled by a schedule. These are the few times she can truly relax since most of her time with Hal is spent keeping him on his path, keeping herself alive.

Federico, always concerned for her welfare, makes sure to supply her with fresh blood whenever they part company. He assures her that while the older blood tends to dry up, becoming a rusty powder, it is still effective. However he insists on giving her a fresh dose, claiming it the most potent. He has become almost like a big brother to her, not afraid to ask the hard questions. "Does he treat you well? Do you feel threatened by him? Are you happy with him?" She assures him that they have worked out a fair arrangement. "Of course I'm happy with him." She smiles genuinely.

Despite the challenges of the situation, she _is_ happy. It's surprising how minutes can add up and extend to hours. She tells her friends about the mornings spent with Hal, playing music while he writes or makes his folded creations, or works on his botany collection. Music has always been a passion for her; now made all the more enjoyable with the occasional choice pieces to elicit comical facial expressions from him. She shares with them her joy at their walks and rides out together; being outdoors has always been her favourite time. There is a quiet stillness, an almost peaceful contentment about him when he is riding that she hesitates to disturb. She is content to enjoy their companionable silence at these times, to observe rather than engage. And, when the mood strikes on occasion, she ignores his protests in favour of climbing a tree or running and dancing in the meadows. She tells them about hours spent reading then arguing the merits of one story or another. She humours his diatribes on what he considers her "unsophisticated" reading choices - _Moll Flanders_ might not be on par with _Encyclopédie_, but she is entitled to read whatever she wishes. She shares some of the activities they do together in the evenings - cards, chess and those new puzzles she purchased for him. And if occasionally she wishes he'd acquiesce to her requests for livelier entertainment, say staging a play or dancing, at least he tends to counter with a suggestion that they retire early. That detail she leaves out of her report. She also doesn't tell them about the mornings, or the couple of times servants had hurt themselves and she'd had to distract Hal, taking him upstairs away from the blood, or the nightmares he wakes with, or the multitudes of times she has to keep the werewolf blood ready... Those are the peculiarities of living with a vampire, of living with Hal, that she endures because she loves him.

With weather precluding travel, Sylvie stays confined in the outbuilding that was transformed into rooms for her. There had been no question whatsoever about Hal being the one to depart. But in truth she doesn't mind it so much - it is her haven. Margaret stays to see to her comfort and keep her company, she plays her music, reads, works on embroidery, or sketches. After some coaxing she gets her maid to dance with her or put on impromptu plays. The third day of this arrangement she'd come up with the idea to send Hal a note, and he'd written a note back. Realizing this strategy would ease their separation she'd even suggested they make a game of it, sending riddles, quotes, or chess moves back and forth to wile away some of the dreary winter hours. Those hours not occupied by his routines of course. The servants take it in stride - they had learned years before not to question their eccentric master and Sylvie's friendly manner had won them over. They trudge across the grounds through downpours back and forth as much for her as for him. She only misses him at night, worries for him, worries for everyone, through the long dark cold hours with howling wind and relentless rain.

Then comes the day she knows it is safe to return and she rushes across the gardens to the main house. No matter where he is, no matter what he's doing or who else is in the room, she leaps into his arms to kiss him with all the pent up emotion of the last few days. Hal's reaction usually varies anywhere from surprised annoyance to extreme mortification. The first few times she'd done it he'd yelled at her for her impropriety. But he inevitably relents, hugging her back, however awkwardly at first. Their reunions those nights are usually frenetic, a tangle of fabric and limbs that end with clothes strewn everywhere. (On one occasion he'd even managed to throw one of her stockings in the fire, much to his chagrin.) These are the times he is least inhibited, almost desperate. These are the times he shows her all the "French" tricks he has picked up in his 300 years of living.

One time he doesn't even bother waiting till night. He is doing pressups in their room when she barges in, breathless from her run. He jumps up, startled, just in time to catch her. She kisses him passionately, stroking his biceps, his back, then snakes her hand down the ridges of his stomach, brushing the trail of hair below his navel to undo his trouser button. To her delight, he does not stop her. Instead he pins her to the wall, kissing her fervently, barely managing to get her skirts up and his trousers down before lifting her up, wrapping her legs around his waist and thrusting in deeply, seeking release with wild abandon. She holds onto his shoulders as waves of pleasure engulf her almost immediately, leaving her to collapse breathless and limp in his arms. That day they don't make it down to dinner.

Monthly confinement certainly has its rewards...

* * *

Sylvie is startled out of sleep by a deep "No!" Her heart thrumming, she reaches over to clutch the vial hidden in the seam of her pillow & rolls over to look at Hal. He is sitting at the edge of the bed, the banked fire illuminating his bare back, the muscles taut, glistening with sweat. He appears to be breathing hard. Or crying.

"Hal, what is wrong?"

His voice is thick. "It's nothing. Don't trouble yourself." He sounds different, the way he sounds when his fangs are out.

She sits up and scoots over to him.

"Hal, tell me, what is the matter? Please."

He hesitates but then tells her, "Nightmare. This one is... different."

"Worse?"

He whispers, "Yes. Much worse."

"Another memory?" Dear God, did she even want to know? Worse than the children? She never found out what had happened to the children, never wanted to find out.

"No. Not a memory. That's what makes it worse. I dreamt... I dreamt _He_ killed you." He chokes out, "_I_ killed you."

"Is this really the first time you've dreamt of killing me?"

Her heart, which had begun calming down from the fright of being woken, speeds up again. She waits, not really expecting him to answer, not sure she wants to hear the answer. Finally she hears him say quietly, "Today marks the longest time I've been with a human woman. The longest anyone's survived."

She sighs in relief. "Oh Hal, this is a good thing is it not? It is a hopeful thing." She climbs out of bed, pulling on her nightgown as she comes around to look at him. Even in shadow she sees his cheek is wet. And his lip is wet, with something dark._ Blood?_

He meets her eyes, "I was covered in your blood. It was dripping all over me. I was reveling in it. I could _taste_ it. It was **ecstasy**." She could see now that he had bitten his lip. Drops of blood had fallen on his chest. But his teeth were normal now. And he looked at her with eyes like pools into his troubled soul.

She reaches out to him, "Shhh, it was only a dream."

He resists for a moment before burying his face into her ribs, his hands on her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh.

He sobs. "You are the light to my darkness. You are the angel to my demon. I do not want to be your death. I will surely be your death!"

"Shhh, it was only a dream." She repeats, to assure herself as much as him. She starts humming a tune. After a while he pulls back and looks up at her.

"What is that you are humming? I hear you play it and hum it all the time but I can't place it."

"Sorry. It is something I made up. I can stop."

"No, it's very soothing. It's something I've come to associate with you."

She smiles, pleased. "It's something I associate with you as well." He looks puzzled. "There are words, would you like to hear them?"

He makes a little acquiescent sound.

She smoothes his hair and starts singing gently:

_Dear thoughts are in my mind  
__And my soul soars enchanted,  
__As I hear the sweet lark sing  
__In the clear air of the day.__  
_

_For a tender beaming smile  
__To my hope has been granted,  
__And tomorrow she shall hear  
__All my fond heart would say._

_I shall tell her all my love,  
__All my soul's adoration,  
__And I think she will hear  
__And will not say me nay.  
_

_It is this that gives my soul  
__All its joyous elation,  
__As I hear the sweet lark sing  
__In the clear air of the day.__  
_

Hal raises his eyebrows in surprise. "My poem."

"I'm sorry. I know how you frown upon the folk tunes I love. I'm no Bach but perhaps I can change it -"

"No, it's... perfect." He gives her one of his rare genuine smiles.

She beams down at him.

Then he frowns. "Sylvie, have you ever taken off your ring?

"No, of course not. Why would I do that? It is a part of me now." She twirls the ring on her finger, feeling the embossed pattern. She's looked upon it so many times, the scrolls interspersed with five-petaled flowers. It is delicate and lovely, more lovely that he had given it to her.

"That's not what I meant." He gets up and goes over to light the candle near the bed, bringing it over. He gestures for her to sit down and perches on the edge of the bed across from her. Then he removes her ring and brings the candle to it, illuminating the inner ridge. Sylvie looks at it, reading for the first time the inscription she had not known was there all along.

'my _love. my hope. my salvation._'

With an "Oh!" she throws herself at him, crying happy tears.

"Careful. You don't want to set the house on fire, do you?" His tone is admonishing but he smiles indulgently. He extricates himself, slips the ring back on her finger, and blows the candle out, placing it back on the nightstand.

They get back in bed and Hal pulls her close to him, but he is still tense, his body feels hard as stone. Laying her head on his chest she hears nothing, absolute silence. And then one thump. She feels a deep sigh fill his chest and as he exhales it is like he is thawing, the stone becoming human. Then, before the next thump of his long, drawn-out heartbeat, he begins, "In 1514 I was a soldier in Belarus, in the Battle of Orsha. By all rights that should have been the day of my death from the Muscovite lance wound in my belly. But the army surgeon offered me eternal life, in return for the tattered remains of my soul, and I accepted. That was the day I became a vampire..."

* * *

**Chapter title and inspiration from Duran Duran's "Lonely in your Nightmare" I actually had some of the elements of this chapter planned for later but by happenstance heard this song (hadn't in years) and they lyrics just fit, so I rearranged the story a bit.**

**An Argand lamp is an oil lamp invented in 1780. It puts out the light equivalent of 6 to 10 candles.**

**Hal's Winter Solstice confession was inspired by ShoePigeon's story 1779: An eyewitness account. If you haven't read it, do so now. It seems plausible and has become headcanon to me. However in my mind it is Hal, not Hettie that becomes an Old One that night. Hope you don't mind I took that liberty Shoe. :)**

**Sylvie's posey ring is a real 16th century ring. I've changed the inscription. If you'd like to see a picture, I put it in the "My Fanfic" page of my whimsyfox Tumblr account. **

**Hal's poem/Sylvie's song is a real poem/song. I put the Youtube link to the song on the Tumblr "My Fanfic" page as well.**


	10. Chapter 10: Domestic Bliss

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Incredibly thankful beyond words for the world that Toby Whithouse has created and for the character of Hal that Damien Molony has brought to life. All mistakes are my own.**

**Sorry this update took longer than I wished. Real Life has gotten a bit busy. **

**Reviews, faves, and follows make me super duper happy. So do comments on the Twitter.**

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

**Ch. 10 Domestic Bliss**

"Sylvie, why, _exactly_, are you subjecting me to this ignoble exercise? We have 12 servants. Any one of them would do."

"Because Hal, I wish _you_ to help me. This is an activity_ I _love to do and I thought to share it with you. Besides, I anticipated you would be grateful to have another task to perform, something to keep your mind occupied."

"_Grateful_? With this new form of torture you have devised for me?"

Sylvie sticks her tongue out at him. He rolls his eyes. _Really at times she behaves like a child. _

She is dressed in a green riding habit, with matching gloves and bonnet, looking for all the world like the highborn lady she is. However, she is kneeling down on a cushion the gardeners procured for her. They had been as aghast as he at her suggestion the previous day. But she had been adamant and now she is snipping at the lavender bushes bordering one side of the garden with a distressingly large pair of gardening shears. Her hair is up in a bun, but tendrils are escaping her bonnet. He cringes at the dirt already on her dress and the smear across her forehead from when she had wiped the hair out of her eyes. She had refused his proffered handkerchief saying the dirt would not hurt her. The sight of it hurts _him_ and he is itching to wipe it off himself. But seeing as she had thrust an enormous basket in his arms and is in the process of filling it relentlessly, he has no choice but to wait.

Hal sighs. "Standing about, holding this basket, awaiting like a servant. It's undignified. It's not proper for a gentleman."

"Might I remind you, you have not always been a gentleman. And would you rather be the one kneeling down here instead."

He gives her a scathing look. She chortles then continues snipping and filling, saying, "Perhaps you would rather be fowling for pheasant? Join a fox hunt? Snuff and cards at a gentleman's club?"

"No of course not."

"I hear duels are all the rage. Or perhaps you would like to go on a bloody rampage?"

"Sylvie!"

"No? Then we must endeavor to fill your hours with enterprising activities. There's only so much calligraphy and paper folding that can be done. Which, I might add, are not exactly traditional masculine activities."

Hal huffs indignantly, "I'll have you know before the modern printing press was invented it was the vital job of a very select, very skilled group of men to produce illuminated manuscripts and copy books using the very techniques that I use."

"Yes, men of God, Hal. Not exactly your calling is it?"

He raises his eyebrows at her comment but changes the subject. "How much of this,_ exactly_, do you need?"

She absentmindedly looks around as she explains. "Well the amount you're currently holding should result in enough lavender oil and lavender essence for my needs. I also need enough stems to have some dried displays and for making sachets... I believe we shall need to harvest it all." She looks up at him with an encouraging smile.

Hal groans. "Why don't you just buy some perfumed soaps and eau de toilette as a normal lady would?"

"Because I have not cared for the products I've purchased. Lavender is my favourite scent and it's best freshly made. Besides, I have fond memories of doing all this as a child. My grandmother had a servant that showed me how when I lived with her."

Hal says sardonically. "The wonders of your upbringing never cease."

Sylvie raises an eyebrow at him. "I do not feel you are in a position to talk considering _your_ history. I am happy that my upbringing included some non-traditional, non-lady-like activities. Life would be rather dull if it hadn't." She pauses in cutting and stacking to look at him speculatively. "I could make you some shaving soap if you like."

Hal is horrified. "No, thank you. Rest assured,_ you_ smell like an angel. However I do not think it's an appropriate smell for a gentleman. I'm quite content with what I have."

She stands up and dusts off her skirts. Then she steps up to him and sniffs at his neck appreciatively, nuzzles into him. He's torn between the thought of the dirt she's likely transferring on him, and the erotic feeling of her nose and lips brushing along his neck. He can feel a pulsation in his mouth and tenses. Oblivious Sylvie pulls back, smiling up at him and says huskily, "Yes, I wouldn't want you to smell any other way. You are positively mouth-watering!"

Hal looks down at her, with a grim chuckle. "As always your choice of words is... questionable. You do realize that describing a person as mouth-watering to a vampire is like describing the taste of whiskey to a drunkard. Neither is advisable."

Sylvie steps away, covering a gasp with her hand over her mouth. "Oh Hal I am _so_ sorry, I didn't mean to -"

The stains on her fawn gloves are enough to quench any urges. He concentrates on that little detail and sighs in relief. "Tis fine. I'm fine. I believe it has gotten easier to control those urges. I am able to manage better." He gives her a small reassuring smile.

"Good. I knew you could do this."

"Now may I please be excused from this torture?"

It's Sylvie's turn to roll her eyes. "Really Hal, sometimes you're like a child."

Hal closes his eyes, willing patience.

"Oh go on, bugger off. I'm determined to enjoy myself and I don't want to 'torture you'. I have plenty of help. But, you will owe me a favour."

* * *

Hal dries his face, having finished his personal ablutions, and carefully arranges all the implements on the table. He turns away and begins dressing himself as he looks over at Sylvie still asleep in their bed. _Their _bed - he's finally come to accept this. _Their_ bed, _their_ room, their life _together_... he had resisted, but now her possessions have begun mingling with his, her time intruding on his. He nods his head, bemused. Sometimes she has the strangest notions for distractions, for activities to help him cope. Surprisingly... domesticated.

She is on her side, her head turned in his direction, her lips slightly parted. Her dark eyelashes rest on cheeks flushed with the warmth of sleep. She looks so innocent, so young, so trusting, so _human_. He's thankful the high neckline of the night dress covers the direct temptation of her neck. He's been tuning it out, but now allows himself to listen to her heart, strong and steady. He feels the desire for her blood rise, but tempers it down. He must control it. He can _can_ control it.

The winter months had been hard on her, on both of them. He was surprised at the strength of his reaction to her - it had not been something he was prepared for. As their friendship had evolved, as he had courted her (as much as he'd denied it from himself), he'd found solace in her company and friendship. The nightmares had all but disappeared for a time, the temptation of her proximity had been overshadowed by his curiosity in her. He'd expected that to remain the case, he'd let himself indulge the belief that she would save him, that her presence would help him manage. But once he'd taken her to his bed the cravings had reared up and it had been all he could do to hang on by his fingernails, all he could do to not rip her throat out. He'd felt a heady relief after their first night together, but it didn't last. Really it shouldn't have come as a surprise. Blood and sex - they are inexorably entwined.

What he hadn't counted on, the wildcard, was the danger each time he fell asleep, the vulnerability each time he let his control slip. The monster inside him clawed it's way to the surface, found a foothold in his unconscious mind, threatened to ruin all his efforts.

It shamed him that she had to see that side of him, again and again, that she had been afraid of him. He detected it, despite the mask she donned as she endured his manifestations, his assaults. Endured them and still welcomed him. She should have been running away, but instead she'd sought him out at every turn, selflessly offering comforting words and companionship in the long night hours when the nightmares -the memories - haunt him.

She gave him her body and he walked a fine line battling through the bloodlust in order to be intimate with her. Each time he persevered he lost himself in her, forgetting the pain and struggle in those moments together. In this he held nothing back, calling on his considerable knowledge to show her, however inadequately, what her sacrifices meant to him. But inevitably in the light of day he was ashamed of how he used her, how much he wanted to use her. And so he kept a part of himself distant, sought refuge in his routines, maintained his wall. To keep her safe. To protect himself.

Many times he'd wanted to give up, had want to end the torment one way or another. But she wouldn't set him free. She had promised him, but time and time again she hesitated in using the werewolf blood, believing he could win. And so time and time again he fought the urges, the love he felt wrestle with the monster that was itching to see him fail. Time and time again he won. That gave him some hope, fueled his resolve. But he'd still been captive to the bloodlust.

And then came the night he dreamt of her death. No, not simply her death, but her death at _his _hands. He woke up with an odd combination of terror and euphoria: the taste of his own blood in his mouth a mere shadow of what he truly craved, the sight of her glassy, sightless eyes etched behind his eyelids, the memory of her warm blood flowing in an endless river tempting him, churning his stomach to the point of pain. He'd known fear as a human and as a vampire. But in that moment he'd been more terrified than he could ever recall. Not simply because he was afraid of losing her - that he was. But more so because, for a fleeting moment, a part of him welcomed it. A part of him had wanted her death, had wanted to drink her dry, to glut himself on her blood. A part of him had wanted to be set free from this incarnation of himself.

However, she had brought him back from the brink of despair and temptation with her warmth and love and hope. His wall of deception, of lies and secrets, had always been there. He'd erected it since before he could remember, a defense mechanism that was second nature to him. But that night he'd let the wall crack a little. He'd surrendered. He'd let her into his private world, sharing with her a glimpse of his past.

It had been an oddly liberating experience. The nightmares had abated, the bloodlust calmed.

He still has his routines, they are an undeniable necessity, to keep her safe, to keep everyone safe. But there is more peace inside him. The monster is quieter, easier to manage. He feels... content. It is an alien feeling and he is still not sure if he trusts it.

He approaches the bed, hesitating, then stroking her warm cheek lightly. She stirs and he thinks about kissing her, but doesn't want her to wake. He has a schedule, a destination to be. Instead, on the table beside the bed, he leaves her a note saying he'll be gone all day.

He goes outside - everything is ready. The groom and his coachman had been instructed the night before to have the carriage ready by the time the sun was rising. He gets in and settles for the long ride.

* * *

Hal does not like to be idle. He'd learned long ago, even as a human, that keeping busy kept him sane, kept unwanted thoughts at bay. He tries to concentrate, had even brought a book for company on his long trip, but eventually his mind wanders...

_Pretty girls_, the thought pops in his head. It is always the pretty girls. He has just left one to go meet another. One holds his heart, the other holds his promise.

It had been a pretty girl that jolted him out of his debauchery the first time. The horror of what he'd done to her had caught up to him and it had been too much to bear. It had been messy - everything in those early years had been - but this time he had strung it out for days, prolonging her pain and his pleasure. He could still picture her in his mind perfectly: tied up, filthy, bruised; her tattered skirts stained with blood from his feedings and his games; her juicy thighs riddled with his bites. He shudders at the memory - she'd been a mere girl, about the age Sylvie had been when he'd first seen her. The day after that nameless girl had finally died, after he'd finally tired of her, he'd inexplicably been engulfed with a wave of self loathing so powerful that he'd disgorged his breakfast and what little of her blood remained in his stomach and had run.

He'd run to the local authorities, had begged them to lock him up. They'd been only too eager to oblige - he'd ranted like a madman. It was a miracle the priests hadn't been called in for an exorcism -_ that_ would have been disastrous. When he'd emerged many months later, finally clean, finally sane, he'd vowed to become a better man. He'd fought hard against the temptations, and temptations had surely plagued him. The steady thudding of hearts surrounding him a constant reminder of the readily available blood in veins barely hidden by transparent skin. The steady offering of women a constant reminder of the pleasures to be had, of the heady combination that blood and sex could be.

He'd toiled away at the most menial, undesirable jobs as a way to seclude himself from most of the temptation, as penance. Having no education, having nothing more than his soldiering experience, he'd simply lived day to day, he'd survived minute to minute - pushing a cart collecting refuse, collecting piss pots for the tanneries, digging plague pits...

Eventually he'd begun trusting himself, and had become restless, dissatisfied. So he'd offered his services as a mercenary again. He'd been employed by a Baron, gone to live at the garrison, met the Baron's niece...

And so It had been a pretty girl once again, this time causing his relapse. His second reign of terror had been fiercer than the first. Not as messy, not always, for his turn as a good vampire had taught him self control. This time he'd begun seeking out vampire society, begun understanding the politics, begun using his soldiering experience to rise up in the ranks, begun educating himself, making a name for himself. Many battles later, several lifetimes and cycles later he'd been close to achieving Old One status.

Then came another pretty girl. And a wager.

That cursed wager.

He'd been in Wales on orders from Mr. Snow to 'butter up' a prominent politician and landowner. This was one of Snows 'tests' of his leadership potential. Newport was rapidly becoming an influential trade town and Snow wanted Hal to gauge the possibility of recruiting some of the key players. Eager to impress, Hal had gone on his mission, with an entourage of course - cronies of Snow and Wyndham, a couple of his own recruits. They had made a merry band, toying with the humans, attending their parties, regaling them of the riches to be had with "foreign investment", picking off the expendable ones like flies. They'd all become aware of the girl's infatuation with him, the youngest Morgan daughter. She was shy, sheltered, and very proper - he came to understand that she ran a finishing school for less well to do girls. Pretty enough, but a bit too fragile and vapid for his tastes.

But how could he resist a wager?

And so he'd found himself encouraging an acquaintance, putting on his charms. She'd led such a sheltered life, it had been all too easy. In a matter of days he'd had her evading her chaperone to meet him in secret, rewarding her with flowery words, a few strategic touches - a lingering hand upon the small of her back, a kiss on the back of her hand, fingers toying with the jewels at her throat. He'd strung her along, quite enjoying the feeling of power over her, the rush at seeing the worshiping look on her face. Her prim and proper ways had been no match for his advances. He'd fully intended to get something out of this little game, but then it had gone horribly wrong. And so he'd been forced to kill her - at least she'd serve one purpose. Blood was blood.

He'd made the idiot responsible for the cockup clean up the mess, came up with a hasty plan that would ensure no suspicions were cast upon his group, and thought he was through with the matter. Imagine his surprise when he found the girl-ghost following him around like a lost puppy. That wouldn't do. So he had made an agreement with her. She would remain in her home and he would visit her annually. Still stringing her along...

He'd kept that promise - it had been one more game to him, a challenge to occupy some of his immeasurable time. However, once he'd gotten off the blood the guilt had set in and now he visits her for a completely different reason.

It helps remind him of the cruel man he doesn't want to be.

* * *

In order to facilitate his little project he'd nurtured a relationship with the residents of the grand country house. The current Morgans in residence consider him a close family friend and he is allowed in their home while they are at the Season in London.

Standing alone in the entryway he sees her appear at the top of the main staircase. Unconsciously, he swipes at his hair and adjusts his cravat. He takes in her confectionary gown, her elaborately coiffed hair, her jewels. As she primly descends to meet him, he can't help but compare this woman to the one he left mere hours ago. She has brown hair as Sylvie does, but the similarities end there. While Mary is frozen wearing the constrictive and concealing fashions of her time - corset, multi layered skirts, petticoats and frills - Sylvie is free to follow the current trends which have a simpler aesthetic. He's developed a preference for Sylvie's Empire waisted gowns made of soft, loose material displaying the long lines of her body and accentuating her curves. Her stays are much more easily dealt with than cumbersome corsets. The simpler chignons currently in fashion are more pleasing than the massive coiffure, and more often than not Sylvie scoffs even that much, letting her silky hair fall down her back and about her shoulders, framing her delicate face and neck. At times when the wind blows, the indescribable motion of her hair stops his breath. She literally is breathtaking.

But the superficial contrasts are nothing compared to the contrasts in their personalities. While Mary always smiles demurely, hesitantly, Sylvie never holds back on her smile, whether full of mirth or of mischief. While Mary looks at him with moonstruck eyes and simpers insecurely, Sylvie assesses him, challenges him, she's open and confident.

Everything about Sylvie screams 'joie de vivre' while Mary is, well, a ghost in comparison.

The ghost in question reaches the bottom of the stairs and curtsies. "Lord Harry."

Hal wipes his thoughts clear and bows back. "Lady Mary."

"Lord Harry, I trust this past year has found you in good health?"

He knows this is her way of asking if he's still clean. Had she followed him around much longer after her death she would have been disabused of that notion. However, as it happened, he did not have to lie to her_ this_ year.

"Indeed. I am happy to report that I am as well as the last time we met. I have some news..." he trails off.

He idly considers telling her about Sylvie. Yet he hesitates, taking in her adoring eyes and expectant look. She has a slight, hopeful smile. It would crush her to learn that he loved another. It would change her feelings towards him. She might even pass over.

Moreover it would be revealing something personal from his life. It would be another crack in his wall.

"Lord Harry?" Lady Mary interrupts his thoughts.

He opens his mouth, "I have it on good authority that the weather has taken a turn for the better and we shall be enjoying this lovely temperate climate for many weeks to come. Might I trouble you for a tour of gardens..." He offers her his arm with a small smile. He sees her face fall slightly before the ever-present simpering smile returns. She threads her hand through his arm and starts speaking about some new topiaries in the garden. And so begins the interminable yet safe prattle...

Wall intact.

* * *

He arrives home later than he'd hoped. His butler informs him that _The Lady Yorke_ retired about an hour before. Hal nods his approval - James had informed him that he didn't hold with all that improper use of first names nonsense.

During the ride back he'd been more successful in concentrating his thoughts, reading for a time, doing some mind exercises. However he still feels the itch of inactivity and seeks out exercise to help calm his body as well as his mind. He does a couple rounds of press ups in his study before heading to their room.

By the time he goes up, warm wash water has been brought in.

The one servant he has never felt comfortable having is a valet. Besides the complications of proximity with a human, he's simply never been comfortable with being dressed, with being touched, no matter how casually. By most people. He looks over at Sylvie asleep in the bed with a small smile of satisfaction that he'd made an exception for her.

He washes up, changes into his night clothes, then carefully slides into bed so as not to wake her.

"Did you tell her about me?" Hal starts at her voice and looks over at her. A pair of alert brown eyes stares back at him. She must have been waiting for him.

"I'm sorry?"

Sylvie lifts up on her elbows. "Your ghost friend. Did you tell her about me?"

With a flutter of panic, Hal evades. "I'm not sure what you are referring to." In his note he'd indicated he would be away on business, nothing more.

Sylvie smiles down indulgently. "Hal, I may not have your gift of memory, but I am neither unobservant nor an idiot. I clearly remember about this time last year a visit to the Morgan estate, learning about your ghostly acquaintance. Based on the time spent traveling and the distance, it is the only logical place you would have gone.

He hesitates, holding onto his wall. Then he says tentatively, "I was afraid, you would be -"

"Jealous?" Sylvie interjects. "What do you take me for, a simpering girl? I am not that shallow."

"Of course you are not. If you were, I would have lost interest in you almost immediately."

Sylvie punches him in the stomach.

Hal looks at her in shock. "What did you do that for?"

"You've just insulted me."

"I assure you, that was meant as a compliment."

"You are a true charmer," she says sarcastically, then continues seriously, "I told you I would only take what part of you you were willing to give me and I meant it."

Hal replies sardonically, "And here I thought I was your plaything, to be order about. I've been made the fool."

She punches him again.

"Owww!" Hal frowns at her. "You have a surprisingly strong arm for someone so small."

Sylvie gives him a crooked smile. "I may occasionally... nudge you, but I haven't pressed..." Hal raises his eyebrows with incredulity. "...much. I am fully aware that you have a complicated past and not all the people from it are locked away in your head, some still roam about. If you have a female friend that is your prerogative. I simply wondered if you'd informed her of my inclusion in your life."

He examines her closely. Her face is open, curious. He allows another crack in his wall.

"No, I did not inform Lady Mary of your presence."

"So now I am one of your dirty little secrets?"

She has a teasing smile on, but he detects something in her eyes, an understanding of his motivations. And despite her claim of lack of jealousy, he sees the hurt.

"She isn't you."

She looks confused.

He takes her head in his hands, and brings her down, so that he can kiss her. He's just aware that he actually missed seeing her all day.

He kisses her thoroughly, pleased with the bemused look on her face when he's done.

"Lady Mary. She isn't you."

Sylvie's smiles widely, seeming to accept his peace offering. "Ahh, there's my Romeo. Fine, keep me a secret and keep your friend Mary. As long as _I_ get to keep _you_."

* * *

Hal is sitting uncomfortably on a settee at the draper shop as Sylvie and Gemma peruse fabrics. He can hear Sylvie at the other end of the shop, giggling. For the life of him he cannot imagine what they could possibly find amusing.

The werewolf is sitting next to him looking just as uncomfortable.

The two women come over to them, the shop owner and her assistant trailing behind with several bolts of fabric, all in shades of gold-bronze.

"Hal, I want your opinion on which of these would be more pleasing for an evening dress?"

Hal glances perfunctorily at the bolts the assistant offers forward. "Is this a trick question? They look exactly the same."

"No, Hal, they are completely different." Sylvie points to one on the left, "This is a Brocade. This one - " she points to one on the right "- is a Damask. See the subtle difference in the pattern and sheen? Besides," she continues, not really giving him a chance to answer, "the Damask is reversible while the Brocade is not. With your fastidious standards, I was certain you would be able to ascertain the difference."

Hal just looks at her disinterested.

Sylvie narrows her eyes, her voice raising, "You gave me a whole lecture last week on the differences between salvia officinalis and salvia sclarea..." She trails off looking at the bolts of material. "You know, I think this paisley would make a lovely robe for you." She looks back up at him with a glint in her eyes.

He swears, if he lives to be 500 years he will never understand women.

"Is this some test on my patience?" He turns to the werewolf, " I have earned several medals in past battles, but were there one for marriage it would be my most prized." They share a long-suffering look.

Sylvie raises an eyebrow in a mixture of incredulity and exasperation. "Hal, did you just make a jest? Or are you insulting me again?"

Federico rescues them from their predicament. "Mis amores, I wish to speak to Mr. Yorke on some important matters. If you will excuse us briefly? Enjoy yourselves to your hearts content." He gestures for Hal to join him outdoors.

Once they are outside the wolf turns to him. "Tell me the truth, how are things between you?"

Hal pulls up affronted, all camaraderie forgotten. "I don't see how that is any of your business."

The Spaniard replies, "I have grown fond of La Señorita. I only wish to be certain that she is safe. You promised to keep her thus when you married her. I have a small amount of empathy for you, but make no mistake, I have not forgotten our shared past. The only reason I allowed you to remain alive was because that poor niña in there begged me to. She assured me you were trying to be a good man, and your actions showed me you were. However, if I perceive any change in that status..." He leaves the threat unstated, hanging between them.

Hal bristles. "We manage. As you can observe she remains in fine health."

The wolf narrows his eyes at Hal but accepts his words. "She told me the last time I saw her that she was happy. But I sensed she was keeping something from me." At Hal's stony look he gives up. "I will not pry into your private affairs. I just want to be certain she has a good life."

Hal relents a little. "I try. To make her happy. I _want_ her to be happy. And she assures me she is..." He sighs. "I've asked her several times to just kill me, but she refuses."

"I would gladly help with that except that La Señorita would likely kill me!" They both chuckle with little humour. "Hal, I have a proposition for you. Now is not the time, but I would like to invite you to my home to discuss some matters, say in a week's time?"

Hal is wary but agrees to a meeting.

Sylvie and Gemma come out of the shop laughing.

"Hal, there's a shop that sells Ices down a ways. That is our next stop. And then we can visit the trimmings shop, stop at the dressmaker's to choose our patterns for the dresses to be made with the fabrics we chose - they will deliver our purchases shortly - then of course the shoemaker, the hosiers, and oh there's the bookseller's..." The women have begun walking away, arm in arm, waiting for the men to trail behind them.

Hal raises his voice. "Well, at least now I am no longer in your debt."

Sylvie looks back at him laughing gaily. "Oh no Hal. This outing is your birthday present to me, remember? You still owe me."

* * *

**Ices was the term for ice-cream in the 1700's/1800's.**

**Something about Mary: In canon we were not shown/told the circumstances of Hal and Mary's meeting, nor is it clear exactly what type of relationship they had. I have my interpretation on how Hal and Mary could have met, and I firmly believe that 1) he had been in one of his "bad" turns, and 2) based on the way she acted with Hal they did not have a sexual relationship. While we know she was not his last victim, it's unclear if he continued to be bad or if her death was an impetus for changing to one of his good spells. In my timeline he remained bad for another twenty-five years or so. Also, I know she's a strong character in the show, but she says "when we met I was that girl". At this point it has been less than 50 years since Mary died, so she's still the posh, bowing, babble-about-the-weather type of woman that had a finishing school to teach young women about etiquette and manners. If anyone is interested there's a fabulous meta about Hal and Mary at the fade and decay tumblr account. I've also reblogged that meta at my whimsyfox tumbr account.**


	11. Chapter 11: A Good Rough and Tumble

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Incredibly thankful beyond words for the world that Toby Whithouse has created and for the character of Hal that Damien Molony has brought to life. All mistakes are my own.**

**Thank you Miss Saemay and Miss TJ4EV for the help proofing this one. And for the lovely comments in doc, gave me warm fuzzies.**

**I hope you really enjoy this one. Extra long which hopefully makes up for the delay. It was a bit hard to tackle then as usual took on a life of it's own... ****Reviews, faves, and follows make me super duper happy. **

* * *

**Ch. 11 A Good Rough and Tumble**

From her perch on a low-lying branch of a tree Sylvie gazes down at Hal with amusement. She'd accompanied him on this morning's ride to collect samples. One of the routines he is passionate about is botany, a hobby normally considered as a feminine pursuit but he defends as a burgeoning science. He delights in poring over the books, called floras, revels in the rigorous process of matching a specimen to its proper entry in the books; finding the name, description, and classification and then documenting his finds. Collecting the samples is a different story altogether.

Hal stands at the embankment of a stream, attempting to grab some leaves from a branch that is partially submerged in the water. Something about this particular set of leaves on this particular plant, whatever it is called - she'd tuned out the botany lesson - was appealing to him. He steps gingerly in the rock-strewn mud, stretching his arm out trying to reach what is just out of reach.

Sylvie calls down, chortling, "You are such a fusspot. You wouldn't be in this predicament if you just took some leaves from anywhere else."

Hal huffs, "I have exacting standards." He teeters precariously.

"Hal stop pussyfooting. Just get in there and yank it."

"Sylvie, you are _ever_ so gifted at giving helpful advice," he says sarcastically.

She jumps out of the tree she'd been in and bounces lively across the 30 or so feet to the stream.

As she comes upon him she says, "Oh for heaven's sake, here let me help you," and without pause she reaches over him to grab the branch. In her exuberance she inadvertently bumps into him and sends him face first into the water.

She gasps then starts giggling madly as he sputters in the shallow water, the silt swirling around him. He recovers himself, lifting up on his hands and looks up at her in disbelief. "**Sylvie!**"

His stunned look is worth any repercussions. Her giggles intensify. She can't help but tease him. "Oh no Hal, now you're all wet and dirty. How will you cope?"

He gives her a martyred look, standing up and glancing down at himself with a grimace. His breeches have suffered the worst, mud from his high boots to his thighs. His jacket and waistcoat are splattered with mud as well and he is soaked through, water dripping from his face and hair. He automatically pulls out his silk handkerchief, wiping his face, then walks out of the water to the grass-line and with a sigh begins to remove the muddy garments. He folds his jacket and waistcoat carefully to encompass the mess and places them on the ground, but he is reluctant to remove his breeches.

Sylvie follows him up the embankment and just stands admiring how the now wet, thin material of his shirt clings to the rippling muscles underneath, the contours of his shoulders, chest and abdomen a very pleasing sight. She feels suddenly very warm, warmer than can be accounted for even by the summer morning sun streaming down. Half teasingly, with a husky "mmm...", she tells him, "You know Hal, you should fall into streams more often. The look suits you, mud and all."

Hal rolls his eyes. "Sylvie, would you _kindly_ hand me that flannel we brought so that I may use it to wipe up some of this mess?" He begins taking off his boots.

She goes over to the horses to grab the spare blanket tied to her saddle. They had ridden out far today, seeking new terrain, and had brought supplies for a picnic lunch. He'd spread the other blanket from his saddle when they'd first arrived at this spot, assuming she would demurely sit waiting for him as he explored this bit of countryside they had not visited before. Instead she'd scrambled up the tree, answering his words about her undignified actions with "Good climbing trees don't just grow everywhere. Must take advantage of any I come across." He'd answered her request to join her with "I couldn't possibly do your enthusiasm justice," and a withering look.

She comes back with the blanket, her arm extended. "Here you are love. But do not approach me until you are suitably clean. Wouldn't want you to dirty my pretty new dress."

Frowning he points out, "But you've been climbing in trees. I am certain there are a plethora of stains on it by now." He wipes his face and runs a corner of the blanket through his hair, leaving it ruffled. Then he vigorously begins rubbing at the mud on his breeches.

"Not so. I am an experienced tree climber. See, nary a mark on my skirt." She pirouettes gracefully, the blue riding habit indeed cleaner than he would have thought possible. She continues, "You on the other hand have much to learn about exploring out in the wilderness."

Hal clenches his jaw as he finishes his ministrations on his grey breeches and folds the blanket. The fact that she'd thrown him in the stream, however unintentionally, and now is taunting him is too much. She has such a smug look on her face, her eyes glinting playfully. He crouches down indignantly to gather the wet garments when a thought enters his head. He lifts his head suddenly, locking his eyes on hers. "Sylvie, you are quite ticklish, are you not?"

He's pleased to see his rhetorical question wipes the smugness from her face. Hal stands up, the garments forgotten on the grass, and tilts his head at her, calculatingly. Then he gives her a wicked look and growls, "Sylvie, I shall give you to the count of ten."

Sylvie suddenly feels flutters in her stomach. She looks at him quizzically, worriedly. "For what?"

In a low growl Hal says, "To Run!"

Sylvie's doe eyes go wide as saucers as she gathers her skirts high. She pauses to see if he is serious.

"ONE!"

With a squeak she turns around and starts running. The flutters in her stomach bubble up her throat. Hal watches her graceful lope, a grin blooming on his lips at the thought of catching her, the anticipation of revenge sweet. But then there's a shift in the moment. Watching her running away from him, hearing her shriek conjures a memory - a pale-haired woman running through the woods.

"TWO!"

She's near the tree now. That perpetual hunger that he always works hard to suppress surfaces and another anticipation on an instinctive level starts to build.

"THREE!"

She's past the tree now and he watches as Sylvie twirls around to look at him, her lips quirked with mirth, her eyes shining bright. But he sees another image superimposed over her, a mouth open in a scream, eyes round with terror.

The hunger claws at his middle. He shifts his weight forward as not so much a word but a feeling tries to surface.

"FOUR!"

_Prey. _ His muscles clench, his mouth waters. He begins the chase.

Sylvie looks back as she hears a noise and sees Hal begin to run after her. _ The cheat, he said he would give her to ten! _The flutters finally burst forth in sparkling peals of laughter. She continues her flight gaily.

"FIVE"

She'd gotten far ahead of him, but he can see the distance will easily be bridged in mere moments. The anticipation intensifies as he feels the exquisite pressure that signals his fangs about to drop and he breathes in deeply, hoping to catch her scent. But, before his vision changes, before he can give into his instincts further, he hears the sound of Sylvie's throaty laughter float towards him and watches as she turns his way once more, time slowing as her movement swirls her dark hair around her in that indescribable motion that never fails to captivate him. It sends a jolt straight into the pit of his belly. _**No!**_

He'd halved the distance between them.

He stops and blinks, keeping himself from manifesting, trying to get the image of the memory-woman out of his head. He breaks through the dark thoughts before they can descend into madness, pushing the memory away and concentrating on Sylvie. She'd turned away once more before he'd stopped himself and still sprints away, oblivious to the turmoil within him. He lets the sound of her laughter wash over him, wash away the last vestiges of tantalizing screams. He refuses to let the memories taint this moment.

"SIX!"

He assesses himself and feeling the control firmly in place he continues his pursuit, resolutely concentrating on his original intent; playful retribution for her badgering. To his relief he recaptures the lighthearted feeling with surprising ease - the months of control, and the painful feeling in his heart at the thought of hurting her spurring his confidence.

As he reaches her he snakes his arm around her waist and yanks her backward. She feels him twist them both around as they fall, tumbling so that his back lands on the ground and she lands on him. Chortling, she tries to escape but he easily stops her with a chuckle, his hands in a tight grip at her waist. She tenses, expecting him to tickle her mercilessly, but instead he brings one hand up and pulls her head down to kiss her passionately, his fingers entwined in her hair, teasing circles at the nape of her neck while his other hand roams up from her waist, cupping her breast, teasing it with his thumb. The flutters return to settle into an ache lower down, and she shivers as his wet shirt touches her bare arms. He breaks the kiss and stares longingly into her eyes, the hunger and apprehension built up to a tension needing release. His voice is suddenly very husky.

"Seven."

His counting, which had been so playful before, now sends shivers of delightful anticipation through her. He sits them up suddenly, and he kisses her ardently, roughly, between their movements as they scramble to unbutton his trousers and pull them and his drawers down.

"Eight."

He says in a gravelly whisper as she straddles him and he pulls up her skirts. The shock of his wet clothes on her bare bottom makes her instinctively squirm and giggle once more, and he smirks smugly. "You fiend," Sylvie playfully bats at him, as he suddenly rubs his wet hair all over her cheeks and jaw, her neck. But then he nuzzles the exposed skin above her low neckline, his whiskery chin and cheeks tingling her skin as his soft lips place kisses along the tops of her breasts, and she melts into him. Suddenly he forcibly grabs her hips, grinding against her, teasing her against his hardness. The giggles quickly turn to pants. He continues his teasing, gliding her wet arousal against him, while he moves his lips from her chest in favour of assaulting her mouth, licking the sensitive upper lip, sucking the lower one, tangling their tongues repeatedly. He finally pulls away when they are both breathless. He lifts her hips up, shifting, then lowers her down.

"Niiiine."

He groans out the syllable as he enters her, thrusting deep, letting her settle on him with a contented sigh. With his hands under her skirts he guides her hips in time with his as she grabs onto his biceps, the damp clothes and his retribution forgotten as they are lost together in the rhythm of their lovemaking. He sets a fast pace immediately, lifting and lowering her at first, then laying back to allow her to take him in completely. Sylvie arches into him, squeezing, and smirks down at him when his breath hitches and he groans. She leans forward to increase the delicious friction between their bodies as his hands cup her bottom, fingers squeezing her into him roughly as he thrusts with mounting urgency. He holds on to the tension until she explodes with waves of pleasure, tightening and buckling around him. He finally surrenders to his own climax with a lusty exhale.

Sometime later, as she lays on top of him, still joined, her panting having finally calmed to the occasional sigh, she reminds him.

"Ten."

* * *

Later they sit together after having eaten the picnic lunch they had brought with them. The warm summer sun makes the water shimmer and the balmy air is making quick work at drying their rumpled, stained clothes even in the dappled shade where they sit on the blanket.

Sylvie sits cross legged, and having coaxed Hal to lay his head on her lap, sings softly to him while combing her fingers through his lush hair. She removes an errant leaf with a smile. Hal's eyes are closed, a slight smile playing on his own lips. Then he opens his eyes and she sighs at the sweetness she sees, his gaze clear, his brows calm, not knit together with his usual struggles.

Hal stares at her in wonder. Time. All he has is time. A vampire feels his own mortality in each sparse heartbeat, his immortality in each breath. The duality of wanting more time, of fearing the infinity of time. He's never felt the need to hold onto any particular moment, most of the time he seeks to forget them, but if he possessed the ability to stop time, he would at this very instance. All things are calm. Sylvie's sweet voice drowns out the sound of her heart, her fingers are soothing, a feeling amplified as they evoked one of his few happy childhood memories. He feels sated and the hunger is easily squashed. She looks down at him with a tender smile full of love and acceptance. Yes, this moment he would gladly remain in forever. Or conversely, this would be the moment he'd choose to die, this memory his last.

As if reading his thoughts Sylvie says "You seem happy today. It seems easier to manage."

He thinks about earlier. "It _is_ easier. Today."

"Why is that, do you think?"

"Perhaps it's the company I keep."

Sylvie snorts, "You've been 'keeping company' with me for many months. It is not always like this. I do not complain mind you. I wish it was like this always."

Hal can't help but correct her, "I believe the proper terminology is 'I wish it _were_ like this always.'"

She punches him in the arm.

Hal rolls his eyes. "You are fond of hitting me aren't you? There was a time that sort of behaviour would have resulted in dire consequences."

Sylvie smiles impudently, "You do not scare me _Lord Harry_."

Hal raises his eyebrows but decides to leave the teasing. He wants to hang on to the feel of this moment, a feeling he hasn't experienced often. _Peace._

Sylvie resumes running her fingers through his hair. "I do wish we knew what helps. We have yet to test any theories. Perhaps sweet things? That cordial you drank at the party last year had quite an affect on you."

Hal blushes. He remembers quite well the effect that drink had on him. Had it not been for the werewolf making himself known, Sylvie wouldn't have left that party with her honour intact. It had been a strange thing, nothing near the powerful heady feeling of being blood drunk, more similar to being drunk on regular spirits, his carnal desires intensified. After the episode he hadn't given it much thought, having been more preoccupied with the werewolf's presence. He eats food for sustenance but it doesn't remove the perpetual hunger he feels. It barely makes it more bearable. He hadn't noticed a propensity for anything in particular.

Sylvie continues speculating, "You've just eaten some sweet biscuits, which you rarely do, and you seem quite relaxed. Also, you told me once my honey-laced kiss helped switch the focus of your hunger. As a matter of fact," She smiles at him suggestively, "we have yet to try that trick with the honey. We've proven today you aren't exactly opposed to getting a little dirty, as long as you are engaged in the proper distracting activities."

Hal thinks of those 'distracting activities'. He's certain their tumble in the grass has had a bigger contribution to his current mood than any foodstuffs possibly could, but he blushes at openly discussing the matter and seeks to change the subject away from the sticky prospect she proposes. He sits up abruptly and turns to her.

"Sylvie, I have been thinking. Now that I am managing my condition, I was wondering if perhaps you would like to go somewhere. I mean, for _us_ to go somewhere. Together. I know how... tiresome... it can be to devote yourself to my care. I have seen some of your drawings, of places that I know you have not seen in person."

Sylvie smiles tentatively. Hal rarely offers to do something for her benefit and she'd resigned herself to his requirements. "Truly? I would love to travel. But I thought we had to keep you away from too many people."

"I can manage it. We could go, if you like. Anywhere you'd like."

Sylvie raises an eyebrow at him. "Careful Hal, you're dangerously close to doing something altruistic."

He raises his eyebrows but says nothing.

Sylvie is still cautious, but allows herself to be hopeful. "Yes, I would like that very much."

* * *

It is nearing evening when Sylvie and Hal come home, racing each other, their laughter preceding them. They'd spent some time planning a trip to France, Paris of course, he was intimately acquainted with the city, but also the countryside. He'd enthralled her with descriptions of the opera houses, museums, markets and squares. He'd been a guest at Versailles towards the beginning of the century; he had visited the new Catacombs shortly before he'd made his decision to leave the vampires once more; and he described to her the wonder he'd felt upon his first experience being able to enter Notre Dame. Even whilst talking about the Catacombs, confessing to having had a hand in the deaths of hundreds of the residents there, his tone had been lighthearted and Sylvie had gotten increasingly excited as he was forthcoming with answers. He'd even jested about the good providence that he'd sought sobriety before the Revolution, saying his kind gloried in chaotic circumstances like the Reign of Terror. She knew she should be horrified, though in true form he was vague about the details, but instead she was just thankful that he sat here with her away from that life. He described the peacefulness he'd found in the French countryside during one of his good periods - quaint villages, vineyards, elegant Chateaus, fields of sunflowers or lavender... She's become intoxicated with the idea of them escaping to that oasis.

Hal feels like this day has been a blessing, one of so few in his cursed existence. However, as they come up to the manor his happiness evaporates into suspicion as he notes an unknown carriage pulled up front. They pass by it on the way to the stables where they dismount as their butler James hurries over agitatedly.

Eyeing the state of their clothing and hair with a raised eyebrow, their butler bows formally and informs them, "Sorry to accost you upon your return, Lord Yorke, but there is a gentleman by the name of Regus who arrived nearly an hour past. He did not give surname or title and I daresay he is rather unsavory looking." The older man purses his lips with another glance at their unkempt state.

Hal has been helping Sylvie down from her horse and she feels the sudden tension in his body as he pauses with his hands still at her waist.

Hal looks and speaks sharply at James. "You did not invite him into my home, did you?!" The servants are under strict orders not to invite anyone into any of their buildings, but it is not in Hal's nature to trust that orders given are always followed.

The butler gives him a horrified look, "Of course not my Lord. He awaits in the garden. Shall I bring refreshments?"

Hal had begun trembling but collects himself enough to say politely, "Thank you James. No. I'm sure this visit will be a short one. Just have everyone remain indoors."

Sylvie notes the increased quiver in Hal's voice and is immediately on alert. She waits for the butler to walk away before asking in a sharp whisper, "Who is he Hal? A vampire? Why is he here?"

Hal looks down at her. _I knew this peace wouldn't last._ His chest suddenly feels very tight. He'd hoped to keep Sylvie away from the world of supernaturals, but it seems that supernaturals keep finding them. "He's not a threat, but the men he works for are. I do not know how he found me, nor why he's here but I can't imagine it's just a social call. Go inside."

"No. I wish to stay by your side."

Hal frowns at her. "Sylvie, this is not a time for your characteristic behaviour of ignoring my wishes."

She tilts her chin up. "You say he is not a threat."

"All vampires are a threat to you. You are human."

"Well, if he decides he needs a snack, I am certain you can protect me. If you want me to stay inside you'll have to physically take me there and restrain me."

"Do not tempt me..." Hal huffs at her. He sees Sylvie's stubborn look and decides to capitulate. "Very well, but you will stay behind me at all times. Am I understood?"

Sylvie nods her assent. He takes her hand and they go around to the gardens in the back.

As they approach Sylvie sees the back of a man with ginger hair dressed in dusty looking, worn, rumpled jacket and breeches and a squashed hat. She can see why James called him unsavory, though at the moment they rival him.

Before they reach him Hal shores up his confidence. He slips into his role like a second skin and asks authoritatively, "Regus. What are you doing here? How did you find me?" He stops a dozen paces away and Sylvie stops beside him. He nudges forward a step, ascertaining that he's between Sylvie and Regus.

The man turns towards them and Sylvie sees he is of middle age, unkempt and wears spectacles. He looks Hal up and down with disbelief, no doubt wondering why Hal looks in no better shape than he, but inclines his head, "Lord Harry. Pleasure to see you too." He pauses but Hal says nothing so he continues, "I've been scouring every county office in England, cross referencing some information on a parchment that Mr. Snow has me hunting down. Imagine my surprise when I came across a marriage license with your name on it. I thought, no it can't be, must be a coincidence. But there rarely are coincidences."

He turns to her saying, "And who is the lucky lady?" He holds out his hand boorishly, but at Hal's warning look he drops it. He squints at Sylvie and then startles. "Oh God, you're _human_!"

He turns to Hal. "She's human?"

Hal says, "It's complicated."

"How long? Does this mean...? Are you two -"

Hal interrupts him, raising his voice, speaking in clipped tones. "Regus, I know you haven't appeared just to congratulate me on my nuptials. What are you doing here? Did you tell anyone?" Suddenly he looks frightened and lowers his voice, "Does Mr. Snow know?"

"No, I didn't tell a soul. Been on my own on this bloody hunt for this bloody parchment for quite some time!"

"Well then?" Hal clearly has no patience for the man.

"I came because you entrusted me with that godforsaken trunk of yours. Do you know how bloody hard it is to travel with that thing? I was half hoping you were proper dead all these years so I could bloody get rid of it."

Hal raises his eyebrows in disbelief. He whispers shakily, "You still have it?"

"Blimey, do you think I'm an idiot? I don't have a death wish! Even if you were on one of your good phases when you told me to keep it safe."

Hal looks off introspectively, "I wasn't sure... if he would destroy it this time... I could feel him coming. I sensed my resolve slipping..."

Sylvie can see a haunted look in Hal's eyes. She squeezes his hand reassuringly and he looks over at her with a slightly glazed look.

With a sharper gaze he turns to Regus. "Did you tell anyone about it? Did anyone see it?"

"Well now that's just adding insult to injury. I put some old parchments and books at the top. If anyone took a peek all they would think is that I was traveling with my research. Which I _couldn't_ because I had to travel with _your _effects instead."

Hal strokes his lower lip with his thumb as he considers. Then he turns to Sylvie, "I need to have space cleared out quickly. In the attic."

Sylvie hesitates to leave, not wanting to miss the conversation between Hal and another vampire, but his look brooks no argument. She hikes her skirts up and runs off to tell the servants.

Hal looks after her then reluctantly turns towards Regus.

Regus is looking after Sylvie too. "Well, I am feeling a bit parched. Is there something or someone I can have?"

Hal gives him a scathing look and grabs him by the throat. "You have **two minutes** to get that trunk off that carriage and **leave**! And you speak of _her _and this place to **no one**, am I understood?"

Regus gulps and bobs his head repeatedly. Hal shoves him away and follows him to the carriage.

By the time Sylvie comes back out with help, she finds Hal, holding a large iron key, standing over a beaten-looking, rectangular wooden chest, more than a metre in length. The other vampire is gone. Hal stares down at it intensely with an odd mixture on his features - anxious, forlorn, wistful.

She touches his arm to get his attention. "Hal?"

It takes him a moment to look up at her, his eyes revealing a mind lost in thought, lost in time.

Sylvie asks, "You would like this moved up to the attic?"

Hal doesn't speak, just gives her a slight nod.

Within half hour the trunk is settled. She climbs up the stairs behind him but at the door he turns to her with that haunted look and whispers roughly, shakily, "I'm sorry. I _can't_." As he closes the door she sees him clenching the key in his right hand so hard the knuckles show white. She stands outside the door, leaning against it, and after a quarter of an hour she finally hears the click of a lock and the creak of hinges. Then nothing. No clang of objects being removed, no joyous exclamations of remembrances, no crying... not even the sound of him sitting or shuffling his feet. She eventually sits down on the floor waiting for him to come out but after a couple hours the complete silence behind the door is unnerving. She decides to head to their room, cleaning herself up, laboriously combing through the tangles of her hair, and ridding herself of the rumpled riding habit - _had it really only been a few hours ago they'd spent a blissful day together? _She lays in bed worriedly looking up at a corner of the ceiling, up to where he must still be standing. She must have fallen asleep waiting for him for she wakes with a start sometime in the middle of the night as he slips into bed beside her. She reaches for him, noting that he'd changed into his nightclothes - now that it is summer he wears his long drawers without a nightshirt. She is sure it hasn't been long since he'd come down. He feels icy and is trembling.

Hal distractedly pulls Sylvie to him, letting her rest her head on the hollow of his shoulder, letting the warmth of her body drive away the cold of his. If only she could drive away the cold in his heart.

Sylvie senses his remoteness. She's afraid to intrude on his stillness, but curiosity gets the best of her. "Hal, what is in the chest?"

He remains silent.

She lifts up onto her elbow to look at him in the light of the candle she'd left burning on the side table. He's staring at the same corner of the ceiling she had earlier, where that trunk rests above.

"Hal, _please_. I can see it has distressed you. If you confide in me, as you have already about other matters in your past - surely it will bring you some relief."

He looks at her with absolutely no expression on his face.

Sylvie decides on another tactic. "You owe me a favour, remember?"

He frowns up at her and answers in clipped tones. "The implication was for something trivial. This is the very opposite of that."

"I never declared the intention to waste it on something trivial. This will satisfy your debt to me."

"I owe you nothing." He says it as a firm dismissal as he closes his eyes.

Sylvie bites her lip, thinking. He seems so aloof, the coldness emanating from within him. She doesn't want this to escalate into an argument and doesn't want him to shut himself away; she wants to recall the companionability of the day. She uses the best weapon at her disposal, using their intimacy to bring him back to her. She begins kissing his chest, then kissing down the line between the ripples of his stomach muscles to his navel. She nuzzles the hair above the waistband of his drawers and smiles at his muscles contracting, his intake of breath.

"Sylvie, stop!" He says sharply.

She looks up and meets his eyes impertinently. "No."

She eases the waistband off his hips, satisfied that no matter how cold he might seem, she's already had an effect on him. He gasps when she grabs him.

"Sylvie, stop." He says, although not as sharply as before.

"Make me." She shoots back at him and she moves down to lick him as he becomes hard. He buckles with a moan when her lips close over his arousal.

And then suddenly he's pulling her up and flipping her onto her back, rolling onto her and pinning her bent arms up. He seems to hesitate, she sees the desire in his eyes, but also a reluctance, like he wants to hold back, the coldness wanting to claim him. She whispers to him, "I love you. Whatever past is contained up there, I will always love you." She sees his pain shoot through his features before he ducks his head to kiss her... His movements have an edge of desperation this time, different from the urgency and playfulness of this morning's tumble. His hands tremble as he touches her, his eyes and lips roam everywhere, unsettled, as if he is drinking her in. His thrusts alternate irregularly, as if his mind cycles through conflicting thoughts. But finally he commits to her and when they explode together he collapses on her with a sob. She holds him to her, reluctant to move, caressing his hair as his head rests over her heart.

When finally he looks up at her, his eyes hold only a trace of sadness, no longer cold and haunted. "The contents of that trunk are my burden to ponder alone. It is enough that you are here."

* * *

Two days later Hal and Sylvie are let into the De La Villa home and stand in the foyer. He hadn't wanted to bring her, but she had coerced him to accede. She'd used her "favour", saying that she would leave off inquiring about his past if he just let her come. "Surely there is no harm in a visit with friends," She had said. He isn't so certain. From what he'd observed during his stay here and the information Sylvie has told him about the werewolf's activities, he has a fair notion what the wolf wants from him. It also hadn't escaped Hal's notice that tonight brought a full moon. He puts his hands on his thighs nervously.

The werewolf comes to greet them and Hal sees immediately that Sylvie's presence is an unwelcome surprise to him as well. But the Spanish man puts on his charms, his greeting warm, if a little forced. Sylvie seems oblivious to the tension. He escorts them to the parlor where his wife is and quickly suggests the two women go out to the gardens to enjoy the fresh air while the men conduct their business. Sylvie raises an eyebrow at that, but gives in as the other human insists.

As soon as the women are well away, the wolf loses no time with pleasantries.

"Hal, you know of my involvement with the Werewolf Underground, sí?

Hal's voice is polite, but strained. "I do recall. Thanks to this movement of yours, you knew where to find me when you brought Sylvie to London. A risk you put her in that I haven't forgotten."

"The only danger she was in came from you."

Hal says nothing, intending to keep calm.

"We keep an eye on the vampires' movements in London and the surrounding counties, and do everything we can to ensure that any werewolves we come across are not captured to be used by them. Unfortunately only four of us run the organization and your kind are a scourge that seems to multiply like rabbits. We aren't able to keep track of every coming and going. Los cabrones found two young werewolves, only twelve in age and new to this life. Two boys from a small village out during a full moon a couple of months ago, accidentally infected. They are holding them captive. I need information. I want you to share with me the knowledge you have so that we can go in and rescue them."

"It sounds like the problem you have is the need to police the werewolves. They are the ones responsible for infecting children." Hal can see that his comment stings but he continues, "I'm sorry but I can't be of service to you. That is your world, no longer mine. It is a problem you will have to solve without my involvement."

"I am not asking you to help me get them out, just that you tell me what you know about the vampire operations. You don't owe them any loyalty, do you? If you do not want to be part of the supernatural element, then why not give them up completely?"

Hal looks away, hesitant to answer. He's cut ties with the vampires, left that world behind. But... if there's one lesson his military tours have taught him it is to not burn any bridges. This advice has helped keep him alive for over 300 years.

The wolf tries to persuade him. "Hal you were there less than a year ago, you saw what they are doing. They have human women and children caged up! They have taken up exactly where you left them, using all the techniques _you_ taught them! What would Sylvie think of you if she knew?"

Hal looks at him sideways, suspiciously. "You haven't told her anything, have you?"

"Claro que no. She is an innocent. I have come to see her as I would a sister or daughter. I _should _tell her, so she can see how truly inhuman you are. But I would not do that to her. I am not cruel like you."

Hal relaxes. "Look, I am sorry, I truly am, but I cannot afford to get involved. I have Sylvie to think of."

At that comment the werewolf squints his eyes and says angrily, "Is that really the reason? For _her_? I _invited_ you into my house, as a sign of good faith. I kept you here safe for weeks, fed you, cared for you and her while you 'recovered' from yet another murder. I agreed to La Señiorita's plan to marry you. I gave you my blood to help keep her safe. I thought we were amigos. I thought your love for a human meant you cared about more than just yourself."

"And I do, but... I have put systems in place to remain hidden and have worked hard to forget that lifestyle. Any involvement threatens to draw me back into that existence-"

The wolf spits out, "See. Your self preservation _is_ still the only thing you truly care about!" Hal can sense that the proximity to transformation has the wolf on a short fuse. He knows he needs to end the conversation before it becomes a confrontation.

"I believe it is time we departed." Hal turns intending to go out to collect Sylvie. But the Spaniard's words stop him.

"We know about your cycles. Apparently you are somewhat of a legend amongst your kind. I saw you at your worst, I refused to believe that the murderous bastard that kept me in chains and forced me to kill could be anything but a monster. Then I saw you control yourself. Then I started to believe. Then I started to plan."

Hal turns back, cocking his head wondering, "What do you mean, plan?"

"If you really want to be human, if you want to atone for your sins, you _need_ to join us. Tell us all the secrets, help us eradicate the vampires from London, from England, from other parts of Europe. You are an Old One, the knowledge you have is invaluable. It shouldn't stay locked away in your head. It can be used for good. Isn't that what you want, what Sylvie wants? For you to be good?"

Hal stands there considering. To atone for his sins. To use his knowledge for good, would that ease his conscience? How many deaths could he avert by helping this group fight the vampires? Nowhere near what would balance the ones he'd been responsible for in his 303 years. And besides, the beast posed himself as a 'friend', but really all he wants to do is use him. Just like everyone else except Sylvie.

"I'm sorry but I **can't**. I wish you well in rescuing your pups, but I refuse to get involved. They are _your_ kind. _You_ deal with it."

A deep growl precedes the werewolf's sudden forward lunge, as he barrels towards Hal. Hal had been carefully monitoring the wolf and so was prepared for it. As he topples over he twists sideways, deflecting most of the blow to one side, able to utilize the momentum to roll over and lithely get to his feet, coming up with a blade he had ensconced in his boot.

The wolf ends up on his hands and knees on the floor, but quickly jumps to his feet facing Hal, a stake in his hand. "Tu sí eres un hijo de puta!" He comes at Hal again.

Hal recalls that the werewolf had fought well, both in his wolf form and in human form. But he'd let himself grow soft. Hal _never_ lets himself grow soft. Furniture is overturned and thrown noisily about as they tumble through the room. Hal blocks and parries, meeting each attack easily. He senses the werewolf growing angrier at each unsuccessful lunge. The werewolf grabs the poker from the hearth and sends it sailing through the air. Hal swerves and the poker is impaled through the wall behind him. The wolf comes at him again but Hal kicks him away and tries to reason with him. "You don't want to do this."

Another lunge - the wolf gets a punch in. "This," he growls, his accent getting thicker in his rage, "This is _exactly _what I've wanted to do since you first ordered chains on me 13 years ago!"

Hal dances backward. "Think about Sylvie! Whatever your feelings about me, you are her friend. If you kill me, what do you think will happen? It would break her heart."

The wolf grabs an unlit lamp and throws it at Hal. He ducks and it crashes through a window. The werewolf looks like he's ready to lunge at him again. "Killing you is a mercy for her. She is better off with a broken heart than one ripped out and eaten by you!"

Suddenly the wolf stops, narrowing his eyes. "I will kill you, and then I will tell her how you've done exactly that, ripped out people's hearts and eaten them. I will tell her of all the atrocities I witnessed, and those I've heard about. She will come to see the monster you are and will come to hate you."

Hal swallows against the tightness in his throat as the memories flood in, as he thinks of Sylvie's reaction to knowing just how monstrous he truly was. That is more unbearable than the prospect of meeting his death this day.

Then the animal taunts him with something that changes everything.

"We will take her in, and we will care for her, and after I finish telling her about the true Lord Harry, and she burns with hatred of your kind, I will introduce her to some of my brethren. I know a young guapo that will help ease her heartache."

Darkness bubbles up within Hal. He hisses, baring his fangs, letting that darkness consume his eyes. He blinks to clear his vision and lunges at the wolf, slicing the air as the filthy beast scrambles backward just out of reach until he hits a wall. Hal's blade slices his arm and droplets of acrid blood land on Hal's face, the sting driving him into further rage and he pulls his arm back to thrust his blade into the wolf's kidney. But the Spaniard slides sideways and down, coming around to Hal's back. Hal twirls quickly, just in time to block the stake aimed at his chest, grabbing the werewolf's right wrist with his left hand at the same moment the dog clasps his right wrist.

As he struggles to keep the stake away from himself, and to thrust his blade forward, he warns through clenched teeth, "You fucking filthy hounds will stay away from her!" He swipes his leg sideways, knocking the dog's leg out from under him. The momentum of his fall pulls Hal down as well and they roll a few times on the floor, each struggling to get their weapons closer, both intent on killing their enemy.

And then suddenly a blooming pain on his arm and shoulder, a loud splintering sound, and pieces of wood raining down on him stops him cold with shock at the same instant as the werewolf, breaking the murderous spell. Both supernaturals look up simultaneously to see Sylvie holding the remnants of two wooden legs from a small console table, a look of disappointment on her face.

* * *

The Catacombs of Paris - the exhumation and transfer of all Paris's dead to the underground sepulture occurred from 1786 - 1788.

The Reign of Terror (September 1793 – July 1794)

I had a question about this so I thought I'd point it out - Hal does not call/think of the werewolf by name, very deliberately. He doesn't trust him, both as an individual and as his "natural" enemy.

Sorry it's been a long time between updates. I was a bit tied up, but for a good reason. Anyone who isn't on Twitter or Tumblr or one of the fan forums - I set up a fundraiser in honour of Toby Whithouse (he picked the charity) and we have several unique prizes. One is a quilt I made of the Show No Mercy banner from S4E7. It is signed on the back by Damien Molony. The other is a signed copy of the script from S4E7 that Toby himself will donate if we meet our target. We also have a Being Human prop donated by Laura Cotton, the fireguard from Hal's bedroom and... something else I will be announcing soon. Fanfiction doesn't let me put in the link but please check it out: justgivingdotcom/MakingHistory


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